Between Empires and Legends
by attackamazon
Summary: Gallica, ex-Legion officer, Dragonborn, reluctant diplomat, has avoided taking sides in the civil war thus far. But after being visited separately by the two men at the center of the conflict, and learning something about each of them, she is forced to promise an answer. But what will her answer be and can she live with it? Dragonborn/Ulfric/Tullius triangle.
1. Night Visitations

_As I've played through the Civil War and main quest storylines, I've become fascinated with the differences between Ulfric and General Tullius. I wanted to write a Dragonborn who sits directly between these two powers and personalities and see what she does and how she handles things. As this is a completely different storyline than my other project, I intended for this to be a one-shot. If people like it, I may continue. Let me know what you think._

* * *

High Hrothgar loomed up the path through a swirl of snow and wind, the ancient stone spires of the building a welcome sight to Gallica after the long ride from Windhelm and the grueling trudge up the 7000 Steps. Lydia's footsteps stopped their crunching pursuit suddenly behind her and she looked over her shoulder, remembering that the housecarl had never been here before.

"That's the monastery? Where the Greybeards live?" Lydia asked, reverently, brushing tendrils of dark hair out of her eyes that had become plastered to her face from the wind and damp. Gallica grunted her assent as she glanced over to where a small handful of Imperial soldiers were setting up camp for the night just off of the path. A similar cadre of Stormcloaks glared warily at them further along.

"It's usually quieter," she replied and withheld a sigh. She regretted disturbing the monks' peace, but something had to be done about this war and there was no other way to make everyone see sense. The best she could do was try to get it all over with quickly. There were bigger and more immediate problems to be addressed. "Do you remember our discussion? Your orders, if things should go bad?"

"Yes, my Thane," Lydia murmured, soberly, and Gallica was once again pleased that she had decided to bring the housecarl along on this delicate mission. It was nice to have another competent pair of hands and eyes around.

"There you are," said another familiar voice before Gallica could continue up to the monastery. She turned, careful to keep her face composed as she saw Delphine and Esbern making their way slowly up the slope towards them. Both looked weary and on-edge and Gallica had to work hard to keep her expression from falling at the sight of them. It was not that she disliked either of them, she didn't, but she had purposefully not invited the Blades, anticipating the dramatic scene that was likely to erupt. There would be too much bickering as it was with the two opposing leaders of the ongoing civil war in the same room, why add fuel to the fire by arousing the ancient enmity between the Blades and the Greybeards as well? But, she supposed, it had probably been too much to expect that Delphine would not hear about the peace conference. The leader of the Blades was too adept at her craft.

"Delphine. Esbern," Gallica said, acknowledging each of them with a formal nod of greeting. "I'm glad to see that you're both safe."

"No thanks to you. You should have told us," the Blades-mistress reproached, frowning.

"There wasn't much time, my apologies," Gallica replied, diplomatically, and then hesitantly continued, "Do you think this is wise? I know that little love is lost between the Greybeards and the Blades . . ."

"Pah, those old fools can't keep us out."

_I'm fairly certain they could_, Gallica thought to herself, remembering the day she had stood in the midst of the Greybeards as they formally greeted her as Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Anyone else would have been killed instantly. Not that the Greybeards would resort to such crude measures, though she suspect the temptation to make an exception for the Blades would be great.

"We need to be here. There is too much at stake," Esbern insisted. The old man did not look well. The journey up the steps had no doubt been a harrowing one for someone of his age and health, and Gallica softened. They would get nowhere arguing the matter out here in the snow.

"We'll discuss it inside." she said, and turned back up the path, marching between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks towards the entrance to High Hrothgar. Hopefully, the Greybeards would be in a generous mood and the Blades would summon the sense to keep their mouths shut for their own good.

~~0~~

"No," said Arngeir immediately as soon as he saw the Blades trooping in behind Gallica. "They have not been invited."

"We have just as much right to be here as anyone else, old man." Delphine growled darkly, her posture immediately becoming defensive. _Well, that didn't take long_, Gallica thought with an internal sigh.

"Master Arngeir," Gallica started, but the aging monk fixed her with a cold look.

"You would bring them here, after all you have learned from us?"

"We have information that is vital to these discussions!" the Esbern bleated, his voice echoing off of the high vaulted stones of the main meditation chamber. The carvings of dragons that swirled across the walls and pillars looked on, unimpressed.

"Master, I have the utmost respect for your order, but the fate of the world is at stake," Gallica cajoled, gently. "If Jarl Ulfric and General Tullius can put aside their differences to come here, then certainly the Greybeards…and the Blades…can do the same."

Arngeir stared at her for a long moment and sighed. There was a world of weariness and sufferance in that sigh.

"I suppose if we are making a mockery of our traditions already, it makes little difference," He replied, stiffly. "Very well."

"Thank you," Gallica said, gratefully, and looked around. "The others have arrived, I assume?"

"Yes, we have apportioned out the supply rooms in the northern wing as quarters for them. As the hour is late, I suppose the talks will begin in the morning. You know the monastery as well as us by now, Dragonborn. Show your . . . friends . . . where they can rest for the night."

Gallica bowed respectfully and glanced pointedly at Delphine as she moved past the monks towards the back of the sanctuary and the north wing. _Do not make me regret this. _As she entered the long hallway, she could tell by which doors had a guard in front of them which were occupied. The Stormcloak and Legion guards watched each other like hawks. Finally, Gallica found space for the Blades and took the last, more cramped of the rooms for herself and Lydia. As she bid Delphine good evening, she saw General Tullius emerge from a room further up the corridor. He looked much the same as when she had last seen him, though his greying hair was possibly a little greyer and his armor was freshly shined. His dark Imperial eyes were the same though, and he gazed at her for a long moment before clearing his throat and walking away towards the main sanctuary. Feeling strangely slighted, Gallica ducked quickly into her own room after Lydia.

"There's food in my pack. Rest up. I want to take a walk and clear my head before I sleep," she told the housecarl after dumping her satchel and held up a hand before the woman could volunteer to accompany her. "Stay. I want to be alone for a while. I need to collect my thoughts before tomorrow."

~~0~~

The training yard was Gallica's favorite place at the monastery. Skyrim looked so peaceful from the mountain with the northern lights dancing in sinuous ribbons of green and blue overhead, like a toy version of the world spread across the landscape far below her. Thousands of lives going on quietly, all the joys and sorrows of the world laid out at her feet. It was hard to believe that all of this might soon come to an end if she failed. And so, she could not fail, _would_ not. Whether she had chosen the burden or not, it was hers. She might still wish for a lighter one, though. Her retirement was proving to be a bigger ordeal than her life in the Legion had ever been. And what if she had stayed in Cyrodiil? Who would be standing on this mountain now, if not her? Or was that simply the onus of prophecy? If she had remained in the Legion, she might simply have been sent here anyway when the war broke out. At least this way she was free to choose her own way.

The crunch of snow behind her made her turn slightly to see a tall figure moving towards her from the dark monastery. By his height and his, by now, all too familiar proud profile, she recognized him immediately.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Ulfric Stormcloak's voice rumbled as he stepped up beside her on the overlook. He looked out into the darkness for a moment and then back down at her, smiling. "As are other things I could mention."

Gallica shut her eyes tightly in irritation for a moment, forcing herself to be polite.

"Jarl Ulfric," she acknowledged, formally. "I'm pleased that you came."

"Of course I did," he replied, dismissively. "I am good to my word, whatever the Empire might say. But this is an exercise in your education only, Dragonborn. The Empire will not be content until Skyrim cowers under the Imperial boot once more."

_This is not about you and your civil war, this is about the end of the world_, Gallica wanted to shout at him, but held her tongue. As exasperating as she found Ulfric most of the time, the slightest insult was likely to send him packing and then there would be no hope for a truce. It was not that she disliked him, exactly. After her encounters with him to date, she no longer believed that he was the murderous villain that many of the loyalist thought him. But he was certainly more than a little arrogant and disingenuous, reminding her much of the procession of noblemen's sons her mother had tried to foist on her before giving up the idea of an arranged marriage entirely. It was impossible for her to tell with Ulfric what was sincere and what was political. And he was persistent beyond the bounds of all reason, which she could not decide was admirable quality or an irritating flaw. Possibly both.

"We'll see tomorrow. Tullius may surprise you."

He eyed her a little suspiciously at that, shuffling in the snow, but continued.

"You have not responded to any of my summons."

"I have been somewhat pre-occupied. As you can see," Gallica replied, gesturing at the monastery. In fact, she had not responded because she could think of nothing she could say that would satisfy him and not result in yet another argument as he tried to convince her to join him in his fight. She knew well enough what he wanted from her, but even discounting her own feelings on the subject, she was in no position to give it at present, so it was better just to avoid the conversation.

"Yes. However, a Jarl might expect a reply of some kind. Unless you have already chosen to side with the Empire in this war."

The tension in his voice rose, and she could feel the intensity of his gaze even without looking up at him. Whatever else anyone might say about him, no one could deny the Jarl of Windhelm was a passionate man. Gallica had never been able to work out whether this was theater or not. Since meeting him, she had never been able to decide whether to despise him for his manipulations or feel sorry for him for his rampant idealism.

"This is not my fight, Ulfric," She replied, as gently as she could. There was no reason to provoke him, especially here and now. "I don't choose sides."

"It _is_ your fight!" the Jarl exploded and then lowered his voice, as he remembered where he was. "It is _everyone's_ fight. You are a Nord, a daughter of Skyrim . . ."

"I was born in Cyrodiil, as was my father. I had never set foot in Skyrim until a month ago. And my blood is just as much Imperial as it is Nord."

"Then you are the Dragonborn. You know what that means to the people of Skyrim. You owe it to them to fight for their freedom."

"I'm here to fight for their _lives_, Ulfric," Gallica emphasized, stopping him. "If this truce doesn't happen, if Alduin is not defeated, then what does it matter if they aren't free? That's what I care about."

He was silent for a moment, hands clenched, and he turned and paced a few steps before stopping and glaring at her again.

"There are things worse than death," he told her, and she heard the edge of bitterness in his voice. What had happened to the man that he hated the Empire and the Thalmor so much? He took a step towards her, "If you will not do it for your people, for Skyrim, will you do it for me?"

She stared at him in disbelief. He had mentioned before that the Dragonborn at his side and eventually on the throne with him as Queen would be a fitting endgame for the legends. And he had courted her relentlessly the last time she was in Windhelm, but she had assumed that, at the base of it, he was proposing a political alliance, not a romantic one.

"How can I answer that?" Gallica began, stuttering as she tried to process the turn the conversation had taken, when he closed the distance between them and kissed her. The tang of male scent and the smell of furs, the feel of arms around her after what had been a very long time overwhelmed her along with the surprise of it and her body seemed frozen, as if her brain were paralyzed by too many senses and feelings at once. When he moved to push her back against the solid stone of the gateway, though, the soldier in her regained her senses and she wrenched herself free, moving back out of his reach.

"This is not the time for this," she said, finally, when she found her voice again, thick and awkward to her own ears. The move had been terribly presumptive and, by rights, she should have hit him and left him there in the snow. She turned towards the monastery, eager to get away, and yet her feet seemed leaden, as if some opposite and unexpected force within herself were holding her there.

"You will defeat Alduin, Dragonborn. That is your destiny, your wyrd. I have no doubt. And afterwards, there will be a day when you will no longer be able to remain in the middle of this war. You _must_ make a choice," Ulfric told her, earnestly, stopping her in her tracks. "Fate has bound our destinies together for a reason. For more than one reason, I think. When that day comes, will you consider standing with me, as I stand with you now?"

The wind howled across the peaks, the sound of dragon wings in the dark. _How can I promise you something that I may not live to deliver on? _Gallica thought. But, by the same token, what was the harm? It would give him the impetus to cooperate with the truce, at least.

"When Alduin is dead," she replied, slowly, "if I still live, I will consider what you have said. And I will make a choice."

"Then come to Windhelm, when it is over." He agreed, smiling triumphantly. "I will expect you."

Without another word and with a growing uneasiness in her gut, she hurried back to the monastery, lest another moment in his presence cloud her judgment any further.

~~0~~

The monastery, usually chilly, was warm compared to the air outside, and Gallica dropped the hood of her cloak, shaking the frost and snow off of her furs as she headed back towards her room. _I need to sleep_, she thought. _This will all be easier to deal with after I've had some rest_. As she turned into the north wing, she saw General Tullius pacing the wide hallway in front of her room. He looked up almost as soon as she spotted him and, jaw clenching, started quickly towards her.

"We need to talk," he growled. "Now."

_You, too?_, she thought, wearily. Her nerves were too frazzled for this, but she nodded and he followed her back to the storeroom that was her quarters for the night. Lydia had been dozing near the brazier and woke with a start as Gallica opened the door, scrambling to her feet. The woman's eyes went large as they moved from her mistress to Tullius.

"If you would excuse us, Lydia. The General has some business that I presume requires privacy," Gallica said, glancing at Tullius for confirmation. He inclined his head briefly and watched as the housecarl grabbed her cloak and stepped outside the room before relaxing very slightly.

"My housecarl. She is…exuberantly loyal. If you questioned her trustworthiness," Gallica explained, and indicated the crate nearest the brazier. "Please. My hospitality, such as it is, is at your disposal."

But the General did not sit. He sniffed and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and fixing her with the same concentrative frown that every officer in the Legion seemed to develop upon their promotion, as Gallica remembered.

"I don't know whether to be offended by these Greybeards for sticking us all in glorified closets or to admire their practicality," he commented gruffly, by way of opening the conversation.

"They don't get many visitors. This conference is unprecedented, as I understand it. I'm not certain they are well-pleased by the intrusion."

"Hm. Neither am I," he huffed, and then smiled thinly. "Well, it's good to know you still deign to speak with me. I've sent three messages with no reply. I was beginning to think you'd joined the Stormcloaks. But let's cut to the meat of the matter. I need to know where you stand on this civil war before we begin the discussions."

"Where I have always stood. Out of the matter entirely."

He scowled at her, crossing his arms.

"There is no 'out of the matter' for a citizen. You either stand with the Empire or against it. Honestly, I would have expected better from a legionnaire."

"Ex-legionnaire," She reminded and he shook his head in annoyance.

"When the security of the Empire is at stake, there are no ex-legionnaires. Your responsibilities to the Emperor and the citizenry last as long as there is a Legion tattoo on your arm," He replied, tersely. "Your grandfather was General Gallicus, was he not? If he were here to listen to this right now . . ."

Gallica went silent, her face rigid, waiting as Tullius shifted, looking away as he sensed the line he had crossed.

"I am not my grandfather." She continued, calmly, after a moment, "I do care about the safety of the Empire, General. I have been an Imperial citizen since I was born. But Alduin is a threat to the world, not just the Empire or Skyrim. I didn't ask for this, but if I am the only one who can stop Alduin, I have to believe that doing so is a better use of my time than interfering in politics."

"I suppose I can agree with you there," he growled, rebuked, and glanced at her. "I knew your grandfather, you know. I was a young officer at the time, but I served under him for a few months before I was transferred to my own command. There was never a better soldier, or general. You . . . remind me of him. More than you would like, perhaps."

She nodded, and he sighed.

"I could conscript you, if that's what it takes to make you see sense. It would be easy enough to reactivate your commission. I assume you are still loyal enough not to desert."

"If you were going to do so, you would have already," Gallica said, allowing herself a smile, "Besides, you have Rikke. She's enthusiastic enough for both of us."

"Rikke is a competent Legate," he mused, "but she isn't you."

She cocked her head at that, but Tullius continued quickly, shaking his head as if to move past some meaning he did not want her to catch.

"I mean that you are the Dragonborn. I have no patience for these Nord superstitions, but many would desert the rebels if they knew you stood with the Empire. Ulfric would lose half of his army overnight and any sense of legitimacy with the people."

"I go my entire life never thinking about Skyrim or being a Nord and suddenly I'm a folk hero," Gallica quipped, making an attempt at humor. "Who am I to decide the fate of these people?"

"Soldiers have always decided the fate of the people," Tullius replied, sternly. "You're a soldier, and a woman of honor from everything I hear. Ulfric Stormcloak is a murderer, whatever else he is. Could you stand behind a murderer?"

"I can stand behind no one until the dragons are dealt with," she replied firmly, reining in the discussion. "If I live through what is to come, General, I will consider what you have said and I will make a decision. Until then, I have to remain impartial."

"Then, I will hold you to that. And expect you to report to Solitude with that dragon's head, ready to take up the Legion banner," he agreed. He looked tired and she watched him run a hand over his face and through his short, grey hair. She could feel the weight of exhaustion herself. "Get some sleep. You'll need it . . . for whatever happens tomorrow."

She rose from her seat and nodded politely as he went to the door. He stopped and turned as he reached for the handle.

"Gallica. The Empire needs you. _I_ need you. Remember that," he said and left. She stared at the spot where he had stood for a moment, and then wearily began to shuck off her armor. Ulfric. Tullius. She had promised them a decision, if she lived. If any of them lived, which was far from certain at the moment. The question was, who would she choose? Ulfric, chasing his own power? Did the Nords not have a right to stand on their own if they wanted? Tullius, honorable, but locked into the narrative of Emperor and Empire that she thought she had left behind. Did she not have a responsibility to stand behind the oaths she had made as a legionnaire? Both men made good points and neither would stop their pursuit until she had taken a side.

Troubled, she lay down on the bedroll that Lydia had rolled out for her and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and relieve her temporarily from this nightmare of dragons and politics. By the time her housecarl returned and lay down in her place near the door, Gallica was deep in the scant comfort of her own dreams.


	2. The Last Request

_Okay, I couldn't let it go, I admit it. I'll just write until I get tired of it or the story finishes or people are like "What is this? I don't even". After reading this part, though, you'll think you know where this is going, but rest assured that you have no idea. Enjoy your fluff._

* * *

At first Gallica thought it would be a lost cause, a waste of precious time, but in the end, after what seemed like an eternity of posturing and bickering, a list of resolutions were proposed that made no one happy but which everyone could grudgingly accept. Such was diplomacy. By the Eight, she was tired of _talking_. But at least now, the way was clear for the final conflict. If they could catch a dragon. If she could prevail against the World Eater.

As she finished taking counsel with Delphina and Esbern about what was to come, fully aware that it might be the last time she ever saw them, she said her goodbyes and tried to put any differences they had between them behind her. They already knew she would not kill Paarthurnax. Neither Delphina nor she would budge on that matter. And so she wished them well, told them that she appreciated their help and their courage. She did not want to go to Sovngard without that at least.

She had arranged to travel with Balgruuf and his men, and while she waited for them to collect themselves for the journey, Tullius approached her, with Rikke in tow.

"It's up to you now, I suppose." He said, customarily gruff, "We'll hold the truce as long as Ulfric does."

"I have no doubt that he will." She assured, "Thank you. I recognize how difficult it must have been to sit through the Stormcloaks' rhetoric. I appreciate your patience. At least someone in this mess is willing to be reasonable."

"Make no mistake, I intend on taking it out on you ten-fold once you re-enlist." He replied, with a brief laugh, and his expression grew serious again, his brow furrowing in what might have been concern, "Go catch yourself a dragon. When you come back, we have business to attend to. I will hold you to your word."

Gallica nodded and he saluted, as did Rikke, before walking away. She could feel Lydia simmering with questions from where she stood, but the housecarl wisely chose to keep them to herself. She caught Ulfric's eye for a long moment as he passed by on the path with his chief officer and personal guard, and when he passed out of sight, she felt something small and deep inside of her begin to ache.

~~0~~

"You are certain this will work?" she asked Balgruuf later, as she surveyed the preparations.

"It worked once before." He replied, proudly, "If you can draw the dragon into the hall, we can catch him."

She ran her hand over the massive wooden struts, thoughtfully.

"Do you think the dragon will cooperate, Dragonborn?" the Jarl prompted after a moment.

"Dragons are…practical creatures, I've come to understand." She said, pondering, "I think he will cooperate if he believes it to be in his best interest."

The Jarl grunted his assent, and they turned to walk back into the body of the hall.

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked her. The evening was growing late and the keep was starting to wind down for the night, despite the hustle and tension of tomorrow's expected events. Balgruuf seemed to radiate confidence, but even he must want to spend this night with his wife and children. Anything could happen tomorrow, "I…doubt there will be much time for talk once everything is in place."

_Meaning you think there's a good chance I will not return_, she thought, but perhaps it was simply a reflection of her own fears.

"No. I am prepared as it is possible to be, I think. What happens now, will happen as it is ordained." She said, and because it seemed like the right time to say it, she clasped her fist to her chest in salute and nodded, "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. None of this would have been possible without you."

"You are the Dragonborn, and you are a Thane of Whiterun." He said, reached out and clasping her forearm, as was the custom, "We protect our own here. Glory and honor to you, Dragonborn. And when you have vanquished the World-Eater, return to us. There will always be a place for you in Whiterun."

She nodded, and he turned and disappeared into the family wing of the hall. Her own small house waited. No doubt Lydia would have stirred the hearth to life and it would be warm. The housecarl was still disappointed that Gallica had ordered her to stay put for what was to come. Where Gallica was going, no one could follow. She had already made arrangements with Balgruuf's steward to deed the house to the carl if she did not return.

And, truth be told, she did not expect to. In the stories, the hero fulfills their destiny and disappears from memory. One way or another, she would walk the fields and forests of Sovngard tomorrow. As she made her way down from the Cloud district between the houses of normal men and women, tending their children and eating together at their hearths, the ache that had begun on High Hrothgar began to grow, filling her with a deep sense of loneliness, of separation so complete that it affected her like a physical wound. In Cyrodiil, she had belonged somewhere, first to her family, and then to the Legion, which had been father, brother, and husband to her for the first seven years of her adult life. In Skyrim, she had assumed she would, at last, settle down, marry, create a life for herself like any other woman. Instead, here she was.

In her mind's eye, she imagined Ulfric on the road, pacing inside his commander's tent. His kiss burned on her lips still. Was he thinking of her, that he came so suddenly to her own mind? A thought struck her as she reached the lower quarter. It was foolish, improbable, and ill-advised, but it would not let her go. Instead of turning off to her house, she kept going, through the gates, and out to the stables. A few moments to saddle her horse, and she was on the road, skirting the great mountain north, nearly standing in the stirrups as she urged the animal onward through the dark.

The moons were high overhead by the time she saw the Stormcloak camp in the distance. Her guess about their circuitous route, to guard against treachery, had been correct. She rode as near as she dared and tied her horse in a sheltered alcove of rock. Pulling the hood of her cloak up, she crept upon the camp. Without her armor, she could move as quietly as a wolf, a skill she had picked up since coming to Skyrim. Ulfric's tent was not hard to spot, and his soldiers were mostly in their own bedrolls by now. Of the sentries that were awake, they would not be too hard to skirt. And she already recognized the man guarding the entrance to Ulfric's tent.

Ralof startled as she stepped out from the darkness, but she lifted her hood enough for him to see her face. Recognition dawned and he relaxed, though she noted his hand still stayed near his axe. But he had seen her come and go often enough by now to know she was little threat.

"I have business with Ulfric." She said, quietly. He cast an uncertain glance back at the tent, and then stood aside, "Tell no one. Please."

"I said I did not want to be disturbed." The Jarl snarled, ill-temperedly, looking up from his book as she stepped through the flap. _Well that the emblem of his city is a bear,_ she thought. His expression changed immediately as she dropped her hood and he saw the familiar curves of her face, highlighted by the flickering oil lamp nearby.

"Dragonborn." He said, rising. The tent was chilly, and he was still dressed much as she had seen him earlier in the day, "How…what are you…"

Wordlessly, she closed the distance between them and kissed him. After a surprised second, she felt his arms wrap around her tightly and he kissed her back, hungrily, fiercely. When they broke, breathless, she leaned her forehead into his chest for a moment, drinking in the feel of it.

"What does this mean?" he asked, and she pulled back slightly, looking him in the eye, unaware of raw pain and need shining through hers.

"Do you love me, Ulfric Stormcloak? If there were no civil war or Empire or Thalmor…if there were no Dragonborn…do you love _me?_"

He stared at her for a moment and then reached out and caressed her cheek.

"Yes."

Gallica's face trembled, her eyes closing shut tightly with pricking tears, and she pressed a still-gloved hand over his.

"Then love me tonight."

Nothing else needed to be said. She shrugged off her heavy cloak, their hands moved quickly, pulling, unlacing, until they collapsed, panting, on the pile of furs that was his bed. Their bodies moved together as if propelled solely by instinct and long-withheld need and Time itself seemed to turn away. She was aware at one point that there were tears streaming down her face and he was wiping them away, his voice a comforting murmur in the dark, until sleep overtook them.

When he awoke in the morning, she was gone, and hanging from the haft of his ax, propped against the tent pole, was an amulet of Talos made of iron so old that its surface was rounded and pitted from countless years of wear.

~~0~~

"Where have you been?" Balgruuf asked, slightly irate when she bounded into Dragonsreach late the following morning.

"I had some last minute business to attend to. My apologies."

Dressed in full dragonbone plate, commissioned and forged from the Skyforge, Gallica knew she was a fearsome sight. Her gaze passed from Irileth to Farengar, nearly beside himself with eagerness, and lastly to the Jarl.

"I'm ready when you are. Let's call ourselves a dragon."


	3. Homecoming

_Thank you for the very kind reviews and follows, favourites, etc. It always makes my day to hear that people are enjoying the story, and I love to know what people like and what they think could be better._

* * *

A day passed while the nine holds held their breaths, and then another. The villages surrounding the mountain of High Hrothgar reported a mass conflagration and scattering of dragons from the peak, but the great black dragon, Alduin the World-Eater, was not among them. And neither, it seemed, was the Dragonborn. It was not until the fifth day, when the bards were already starting to compose the tragedy of the hero who had given her life to save Skyrim, that news spread from Ivarstead that the Dragonborn had been spotted descending the mountain. The Jarls breathed a sigh of relief in their keeps, and then attended to their battle plans. With Alduin's death, the truce would not hold forever. General Tullius and Ulfric brooded over their maps and waited, their sentries on alert at the gates. Neither wanted to make the first move before they knew where the Dragonborn stood. Both hoped, at any time, to see her riding through their gates to begin the war in earnest. Only time would tell.

~~0~~

When Gallica staggered down from the Throat of the World, bone-tired, nearly insensible from exhaustion and the gravity of what she had done and seen, she went first to the monastery. The Greybeards took her in, as they always had, and tended her wounds. Dreamlessly, she slept curled by their hearth for more than a day, until hunger woke her.

"Paarthurnax has gone to spread the Way of the Voice among the dragons." She told Arngeir later, as she tore ravenously into the dried meat and apples he brought her.

"We know." He said, kneeling down nearby. He seemed older than before, his face more deeply lined, his expression more worn, but she detected a distinct note of pity in his eyes when he looked at her, "Where will you go now, Dragonborn?"

"There will still be dragon attacks for awhile, though I doubt they will be as frequent. I will go where I am needed, I suppose."

"You are welcome to stay here, if you wish." He said, and hesitated, "But it has always been my observation that a monastic life is most difficult for a warrior to take up. There is always a part of them that yearns for battle."

Gallica was silent for a moment, and then sighed deeply, disappointed, but unable to contradict the old monk. She had wanted to stay in Sovengard. Hadn't she done enough? Hadn't she earned her place there? But she had been sent back, and Arngeir was correct. As much as she wanted to retreat from the world, after a time the restlessness that had driven her from Cyrodiil would drive her away from here, too. Her work, as the giant Tsun had said, was not yet complete. She had made promises.

On the day that she left the monastery, she knew it was doubtful that she would ever return. One did not pick up the boat and carry it with them after crossing the river. It felt odd, as she looked out over the hamlet of Ivarstead, to begin thinking of the future again. In the last few months, she had grown accustomed to the present and the threat of imminent destruction or what would happen if the crisis were averted. Her thinking would have to readjust again to the mundane threats of war and the long process of reconstruction.

The villagers did not approach her, and she did not speak to them. They did not ask her what had happened or where she was going. In truth, she could not have said. She simply took the northern road out of town and kept walking. She slept when she was tired and foraged when she was hungry and avoided the main roads where she might be easily spotted. The landscape of Skyrim, which had before seemed only a backdrop to the drama of the living legend she was enacting, took on shape and meaning for her finally and she began to understand in some sub-rational way what Ulfric had meant in all of those speeches. As the Nords shaped the land, so too had they been shaped by it: proud, harsh, beautiful even in savagery. And that was a part of her, too, though she was only beginning to recognize it.

Slowly, it dawned upon her that she was gradually working her way north, towards Windhelm. Did Ulfric even know she was alive? How many days had it been by now? She wanted to see him, to tell him what had happened. If anyone would understand, it would be him, with his obsession with legends and heroes. But…she was hesitant. The idea of being greeted in state, as the Dragonborn, made her cringe, and she was not ready to declare herself for one side in the war or the other.

Finally, a solution occurred to her and she stopped at a house along the way, purchasing an extra set of everyday clothing from a large farm family who stared at her as if she might slay a dragon in front of them at any moment. She packed up her armor, wrapping it into a tight bundle, and dressed herself like any other common woman. It wasn't long before a merchant approached the city and she fell in with his train, hoping that without the trappings of the Dragonborn, she would not be recognized. The guards scarcely even looked her way.

~~0~~

Windhelm had always made Gallica slightly uncomfortable…something about the city seemed dark, forbidding, as if she were being watched by the wights of the thousands of gravestones that were scattered through the streets. The Palace of the Kings only magnified the effect. She knew little of the actual history herself, aside from random stories of dead kings she had picked up from her father as a child and the bards since she had come to Skyrim, but she would guess that more blood had been spilled on these stones than practically anywhere else in the country.

She rented a room in Candlehearth Hall, ate and cleaned herself, and pondered what to do. Now that she was here, she was restless, anxious that someone might recognize her at any moment. She needed Ulfric to see her with his own eyes, not hear it second hand from some lackey or guard, but it also frightened her. She, who had killed more dragons now than she could count, was afraid of what she might find in the Palace. There was still time to leave and reconsider, but she felt compelled to stay even as she fretted over what Ulfric's response would be. She did not regret the night they had spent together, but it had complicated an already complex situation. Already, she felt her thoughts and attitudes shifting to accommodate the place he now held in her heart. In the end, though, she could not stay away.

Ulfric, seated on the High Seat at the head of the hall, was taking council with his general and steward when she entered the Palace. Gallica could not blame the guards for not stopping her. She looked like a servant and they could not be expected to know by name and face every kitchener and floor-scrubber that worked there. Still, if she stayed in Windhelm, she would suggest that a better regiment of guards be trained immediately. No doubt Tullius already had spies in the city.

Galmor was the first to spot her and he stepped forward, his hand immediately going to his weapon. A good housecarl, though from her interactions with him to date she could not say that he was an equally good man.

"Away with you, woman. The Jarl does not accept petitions unannounced." He growled.

"I think he will make an exception for me." She replied, loudly and clearly enough for Ulfric to hear, the corner of her mouth tipping up in the face of the older soldier's menace. He glared at her and seemed about to reply, but Ulfric stepped down from his throne, pressing past his general, staring at her. For once, it seemed, words failed him.

"Jarl Ulfric." She said, breaking the silence, inclining her head in the customary gesture of respect.

"Dragonborn." He said, composing himself. Without taking his eyes off of her, he spoke to his steward, "Cancel any audiences for the rest of the day. I am not to be disturbed."

"Then, the truce…" Galmor rumbled, and looked to Ulfric, "Now that she's here, we should…"

"It will wait." He replied, just a touch of bite in his voice as he frowned at his general before turning back to Gallica. She saw the bear-hooded officer scowl, but he knew his leader well enough to keep his peace, "Come."

She followed him, hurrying to match his long strides, out of the hall, up the stairs towards the private wing of the Palace and into a large room, his private quarters. Almost before the door was shut entirely, he gripped her in a massive embrace that nearly lifted her from the ground. She returned it with equal zeal, and he kissed her, fiercely, and leaned his forehead to hers, his huge hands pressed to either side of her face.

"I was beginning to think…" he said, somewhat hoarsely, "But here you are."

"I am." She replied, her heart beating with a furious, wild happiness for the first time she could remember in a very long time. He held her at arm's length, looking at her as if still not certain she was real.

"And you were victorious? The World-Eater is dead?"

"He is."

"Talos be praised." Ulfric exclaimed, hugging her fiercely again. She laughed…how long since she had_ laughed_… and felt the tension of the last few weeks start to drop away from her. She let him pull her by the hand over to a set of chairs by the hearth, "Tell me everything."

"It's a long story." She warned, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile.

"I want to hear all of it." He replied. And so she told him everything, of capturing Odahviing in Dragonsreach, of flying to Skuldafn, of Sovngarde and the battle. He sent for mead and food for them, and listened in rapt attention as she told the tale, and by the time she was done, the windows outside long since gone dark with nightfall, they lay sprawled together on the bed, watching the shadows flicker among the wooden beams of the rafters. She spread her fingers over his shoulder, idly, and felt a hard, familiar lump. Gently, she disentangled her amulet from his tunic and caressed the smooth edges.

"It's not an amulet of Mara," he said, "But…more fitting."

"It was my father's. In a way, I think he would approve. He always said that a man who loses his history has lost his future also."

"Then he was a true Nord. As are you."

She raised herself up onto one elbow, laying her chin on his chest and looking up at him, as he toyed with a twist of her hair.

"What happens now?"

"You stay here, with me. And one day, we rule Skyrim together, a high king and queen unlike any ever seen before. I do not want to wake up to anymore empty beds." He growled, turning towards her and pulling her tightly against him, amorously, almost possessively, as if afraid she might slip away again. After they had made love, she lay in the dark, listening to his breathing slow and deepen. There was still the matter of the war. But maybe, with her help, they could turn the truce into a lasting peace. Maybe she could be the bridge, Nord by heritage, Imperial by birth, that could bring both sides of the conflict together. As she snuggled into the warmth of the bed, her arm draped around her lover, she hoped so. For everyone's sake.


	4. All's Fair in Love and War

_This chapter has been a few extra days coming because it's a bit longer and I wanted to get the characterization just right. I'm not writing this story so much as a novelization of the events in the game as much as I'm writing it as a concept piece to see how all these personalities bounce off of each other. So, I will probably be skipping around some and glossing over some things that aren't terribly important to the theme. Also, like with the Palace of Kings in this chapter, I will probably fiddle around a bit with the actual layout of cities and locations simply because they are super-simplified in the game and would be more complex in a real setting. And because plot bunnies. Plot bunnies everywhere. Also, thank you so much for the reviews and PMs and such! I truly appreciate and savour your feedback. I hope you continue to enjoy the story. It's about to get interesting, to say the least._

* * *

For a day, everything was perfect. Gallica could not remember how long it had been since she had spent a full day out of armor, and she explored the keep and luxuriated in having the leisure to read while Ulfric was attending to the everyday duties of running a city. Before despairing of producing a daughter that would grow up to be a fine Imperial lady, her mother had insisted Gallica be given a classical education, and what had been near torture then…all those dusty tomes of history…was a rare pleasure now.

On the second day, the gifts began to arrive. They were small things at first, mere tokens. A carved and gilded drinking horn here, a dragon-pommeled dagger there from a wealthy family of Windhelm. When a helm arrived that would not have been out of place in a Jarl's treasure room, however, Gallica balked.

"Where do they keep coming from?" she asked, staring dumbfounded at the jeweled and intricately decorated thing in her hands.

"That one is from the Jarl of Dawnstar, I believe." Ulfric replied, mildly, sounding pleased. She turned it in her hands, feeling its weight. Too heavy, too _pretty_ to fight in. It made her desperately uncomfortable. And then a thought struck her.

"How did they…?" she started, and then looked up at Ulfric, frowning, "You told them where I was."

"I sent riders out after you arrived." He agreed, "The other holds deserved to know about your victory. You are quite a well-known figure by now, Dragonborn, and the Jarls will need to look to their own defenses."

_And you wanted them to know I came here first_, she continued in her head, but pursed her lips to keep that and several other ill-timed comments from coming out. So, everyone in Skyrim knew she was in Windhelm at the Palace of the Kings. _That_ was not going to go over well in Solitude. And that was exactly what Ulfric had planned, if she had to guess. He must have sent the riders out almost as soon as she had arrived.

She stared at him for a long moment, feeling Galmar watching her like a hawk from nearby, and set the helm down with a sigh. It was vexing that Ulfric had not consulted her first, but with everything going so well otherwise she did not want to make a scene, especially in front of his household.

"Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"Now that the reason for the truce has been dealt with, we will need to tend to the offensive before winter sets in in earnest. I want you at the planning table with me. Your experience with Tullius and with Whiterun will be an asset."

"Ulfric," Galmar interjected, before she could level her own objection, "the Dragonborn isn't one of us. Yet. It is not wise to put so much trust in a foreigner. Has she even sworn her service to you yet?"

Gallica kept her expression carefully guarded as she met the old soldier's gaze. Of course he was suspicious of her. Why wouldn't he be? There was clearly more to it than that…jealousy, perhaps?...but it would not improve the situation to challenge him directly. Nor would she be cowed by bluster, though, and so she remained silent, waiting for Ulfric's reply.

"In time, old friend." The Jarl replied, peaceably, "The Dragonborn has come here in good faith."

"Or else as a spy." the housecarl grunted, frowning deeply.

"We two were also sworn to the Imperial Legion once, Galmar. All of us standing here have seen the true face of the Empire." Ulfric replied. While his expression was calm, there was a note in his voice that brooked no further argument. The housecarl stepped back, but Gallica could see his mind working, calculating, waiting for another chance to reason with his liege.

"Now, before dinner, there is something I want to show you." Ulfric said to her, and she followed him, casting a glance back to catch Galmar's scowl before they left the hall.

~~0~~

"Galmar is a good man. And a good soldier. He has a point." The Jarl said, a few moments later, as they strolled the halls of the Palace, "There will be questions. We should put those to rest as soon as possible and make it clear that you stand under my banner. Galmar's concerns I allow because of his service and the length of our friendship, but I will not have others questioning your loyalty."

Gallica frowned, uncomfortably, gazing straight ahead as she tried to quell the sudden return of the uncertainties she thought she had left behind her. She supposed it was unavoidable, and she knew she would have to take a stand eventually, but this seemed rushed and she was not pleased to have decisions about her life made for her.

"If you trust me, then what questions can there be?"

"I trust you with my life, my heart." He said, earnestly, and she knew he meant it. Before she could relax, though, he continued, "But this is about more than just us. The people will believe what they can see. They need their pageantry and their stories, and I need my future queen and my right hand to be above reproach in their eyes. The men you command must know that your orders come from me."

"I am not anxious to command anyone." She replied, uneasily, and he stopped, putting his large hands on her shoulders.

"I have fought in wars since I was old enough to hold a sword. I weary of war, too. But that is why I know we must continue fighting. I have held too many dying men in my arms in foreign lands. That is not the world I want to leave to our children one day."

"There must be a way to broker a peace." She urged, looking up into his eyes, willing him to listen to her, "You saw for yourself at High Hrothgar…Tullius is not unreasonable, there is a possibility…"

"I am done speaking with General Tullius." Ulfric replied, with a disgusted huff. Gallica was about to pursue the matter, but though better of it. She was beginning to get a feel for Ulfric's moods, and recognized that arguing with him directly was unproductive. He could be persuaded, but indirectly. It had to seem like his idea. She could remember her mother, stubborn and stalwart Imperial lady that she was, saying something similar about her father. So she decided to take a leaf from her mother's book for once. There would be other opportunities to make her point.

The western parapet of the Palace looked out over the city of Windhelm and the rugged terrain of Eastmarch. There was snow on the wind, and the sun was setting over the distant mountains, casting a grey-golden glow over the world.

"This is what we fight for." He said, gesturing towards the scene. Gallica did not reply. She was too ill at ease already to stomach any more dogma tonight. Ulfric surveyed the scene a moment longer and turned to her, "I have a gift for you."

She watched as he reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a ring. The light from the sunset glimmered off of the intricately tooled surface, illuminating insets of garnet and blue glass that formed a complex pattern around the band.

"This was my mother's, given to her at her wedding by my father. I had planned to wait until our own, but the official ceremony will have to wait until after the fighting is done. Since you have already given me your token, I wanted you to have one from me."

"It's beautiful." She said, and he took her hand and slipped it onto her finger. It was very slightly tight, but not uncomfortably so. Still, she felt a lump form in her throat, "Are you sure? This all seems to be happening so quickly…"

"I don't need time to know what I already feel." He replied, and grinned at her, "Besides, you have a tendency to wander, Dragonborn. Now that I have you, I have to find some way to keep you home."

Something about that phrase prickled in the back of Gallica's mind, but she put it aside as an artifact of their earlier conversation. Instead, she smiled and leaned against him, letting him put his arm around her as they watched the sun dip below the mountains. Perhaps he was right and their fates _were_ bound together for a reason. For how could something that made her feel so wonderful be wrong?

~~0~~

The following day brought dark clouds and wind, a heaviness to the air, but no proper storm. Gallica woke feeling restless, and prowled the hall until finally settling herself to the task of unpacking and checking over her armor. She had wiped the gore from it before leaving the mountain, but there were always straps and loose rivets to replace. The dragonbone had held up well, better than steel, but it would need a proper cleaning to keep it in shape. The exertion would keep her mind and body occupied and off of other things.

She had just finished oiling and testing the last strap on her cuirass when a servant informed her that Ulfric had sent for her. Wiping her hands, she made her way down to his study, mostly converted now to a war room. As she approached, however, hearing the susurrus of the conversation within, she stopped in her tracks and listened. The two men were discussing Whiterun, and she felt something in her chest constrict as she realized what was being said.

"You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message." Ulfric's voice echoed.

"If by message, you mean shoving a sword through his gullet." Galmar grunted.

Ulfric seemed to hesitate for a moment, but continued, "Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would send a more powerful statement, don't you think?"

"So, we're ready to start this war in earnest then?"

"Soon."

"I still think you should take them all out like you did…"

At that point, Gallica had heard enough. Fury welled up within her, but she forced it down, gritting her teeth as she stepped through the short corridor and into the war room. _This is not the time, this is not the place, _she told herself, repeating it like a mantra in her mind, but mostly she did not want to give Galmar the satisfaction of seeing her lose her temper. Ulfric turned to her and smiled as she approached, and with great effort she arranged her features into a tight-lipped response.

"There you are. I see your morning has been productive." He said, fondly, gesturing at the oil cloth she had tucked into her belt. Galmar's face remained a mask, as he crossed his thick arms.

"You sent for me." She reminded, too thunderstruck and angry to bandy words at the moment. Ulfric was not a fool. She saw the subtle shift in his expression as he recognized her discontent, and glanced at his carl.

"A moment, Galmar. I would speak with the Dragonborn alone."

The soldier grimaced, a comment to himself, but he stepped towards the door, cast an appraising eye over Gallica, as if to warn her that he was still watching her. She returned it, almost belligerently, feeling the blood begin to surge in her temples. But it had been years since she had lost the habit of lashing out, and so she waited.

"You're angry." Ulfric ventured, once the door was closed, "Tell me what troubles you."

"When were you going to tell me about your plans for Whiterun?" she asked, cutting directly to the point.

"As soon as a plan was made." He said. He was trying to play the situation off as nonchalantly as he could, but she could tell he was holding back, guarding something from her and that infuriated her.

"You know my history with Whiterun. By the Eight…."

"Nine." He reminded her, calmly enough, but she could see a fire beginning in his eyes.

"I will participate in nothing that directly threatens Jarl Balgruuf's life, or that of his family." She said, finally.

"Divines willing, you won't have to." Ulfric replied, "Galmar believes a sterner lesson to the other Jarl's will be necessary, but I would rather solve this without bloodshed. Balgruuf is an honorable man. I was hoping his respect for you would convince him to see sense."

"And if he doesn't take your side in this? If he prefers to remain out of it altogether?"

"That is no longer possible. The Empire is bringing all of its weight to bear on Whiterun. How long before he capitulates to their demands?" Ulfric said, and frowned, "You are one of Balgruuf's Thanes, are you not? It speaks well of you that you would defend him, but if he will not support us, then he is against us. You know how this goes."

His voice had changed from the casual tone he normally used with her to the growl of a Jarl addressing a subordinate. She sensed how close the conversation was to spinning out of control, and she tried to reign herself in. _Patience_, she thought, _diplomacy_…

"That is what I wanted to speak to you about, in fact." He continued, "We can't delay this war any longer. The Empire is already moving their troops. Things are coming to a head. I need you on the battlefield. It is time to make your loyalties known."

"Let me go to Solitude. Let me speak with Tullius and convince him…"

"No!" he barked at her, and she could see he was truly angry now, "The time for talking is over with! You promised me an end to this fence-sitting, Dragonborn. If you stand with Skyrim, with me, then stand!"

"Dragonborn…" she nearly spat, her lips curling as she paced a few steps. If she never heard that title again, it would be too soon. She was sick to the bone of the Dragonborn, of dragons, of being a pawn in everyone's game, "I have a name."

"An Imperial name."

"_My_ name! My grandfather's name. I am not ashamed of it!" she exploded, "Is it me you want, Ulfric? Or just the Dragonborn?"

"You forget yourself." He replied, icily. They glared at each other, unable to overcome the stalemate, until she turned away, shaking her head, so angry that she could feel the vibration in her muscles from where they had been held tense for too long.

"This choice is difficult for you, I understand. But, I must know. Will you stand with me?" he asked her, finally, stepping towards her.

"With _you_…yes." She said, not looking at him, even when she felt his hand rest on her shoulder.

"Then trust me, heart." He said. She let him turn her and lay a kiss on her brow, "I will ask nothing of you that I would not do myself."

_That is hardly comforting_, she thought, but maybe unjustly. The energy to sustain the argument was draining out of her, though, and she sighed. Love was turning out to be more of a slow torture than a pleasure, but she was not young or foolish enough to think it was supposed to be entirely bloodless. She returned his embrace with real feeling, and then stepped back.

"I need to take a walk. Clear my head." She said.

"Speak with Galmar when you have a moment. You will be working under him in the field for now and I believe he has a task for you. A sort of initiation."

She nodded and left, heading towards the great doors at the end of the hall and ignoring the hulking, bear-helmed general as she passed by. There would be time enough to deal with him when she had had some fresh air. Perhaps she had been cooped up inside for too long. The chill, salt breeze of Windhelm would help with that, and perhaps take the sting out of falling into the shadow of her own legend.


	5. The Test

No one could say that Windhelm had not crumbled grandly over the years. It was one of the starkest differences between the city and Imperial-backed Solitude, with its neatly laid out streets and army of workers engaged in perpetual repairs. As much as Gallica found it to be a confusing mire of a place, the living working and sleeping practically on top of the dead, there was a sort of austere elegance to that as well. The city owned its history, and its darkness. Much like the Stormcloaks themselves.

The markets were still busy, citizens trying to get their shopping done before the incoming snow. Dressed simply as she was, she could blend in for a time. Only a few denizens of Windhelm knew her well enough to recognize her without the trappings of her title, and she found it comforting to be just another member of a crowd again. Once the war was won, once Ulfric was king, she suspected that would be over with for good. There was not a chance in Oblivion that a queen would be able to pass unnoticed, even in the unlikely event he would let her roam freely and alone, and she would have other duties to the court besides. Gallica felt claustrophobic just thinking about it.

And they could still lose. The Empire was not the force it had once been, but she knew better than to underestimate Tullius and the Stormcloaks were more of an organized rabble than a real army. Even with the influx of new blood Ulfric hoped for now that she was here, even with her help, nothing was certain. It might just as easily end with both of them back in front of a headsman's block. Wouldn't that be a nice bit of poetry, a tragic romance for the bards to sing about.

A few flakes of snow were starting to drift down from the steel-coloured sky, and Gallica knew she should be headed back. She had wandered close to the Grey Quarter and already the lanterns were being lit down the dark, sloping road, the elves finding their way home after the day's labors. Even in Cyrodiil, the races tended to form communities among themselves, but it disturbed her to see a city so completely and oppressively segregated. Another thing she was going to have to discuss with Ulfric eventually. She didn't think he shared the general hatred of all elves that seemed common among his followers, but neither did he condemn it. She could appreciate the precariousness of his position, balancing the attitudes and loyalty of his Stormcloaks with policies that would not alienate too many people, but it still chaffed at her.

"Gallica?" A Dunmer woman said, stopping at the entrance to the road. It took a moment for Gallica to recognize her as the young woman she had stood up for in the main square when she had first come to the city…a life time ago it seemed, before she had become widely known as the Dragonborn.

"Suvaris." She acknowledged, surprised, but pleasantly so. It was nice to hear her name on someone's lips again, "It's good to see you. How are you?"

"Getting by. And you...you've done well for yourself. If I had known you were the…"

"I'm not one for grand titles." Gallica interupted her, quickly. Suvaris arched her brow humorously over a red eye, her lips turning up into a smirk.

"Oh? I had heard differently. Should I courtesy now? Or should I wait till the coronation?"

"How is it that everyone seems to know more about my life than I do?"

"It isn't true, then?" the dark elf asked, cocking her head slightly, curious, "You aren't betrothed to the Jarl?"

"Nothing is certain." Gallica replied, embarrassed, as she changed the subject, "How are things in the Grey Quarter? Rolff hasn't been bothering you again, has he?"

"Of course he has. Not as much after you knocked him on his loutish head, but he and his friends are back at it in force lately. Short tempers, short memories. Comes from shortness in other areas, I suspect."

"I suppose I'll have to have another word with him." She replied, smiling slightly at the joke.

"That's kind of you, but as much as I'd enjoy seeing him get another lesson in manners…well, it's just treating the symptoms, not the disease, isn't it? He's hardly the only one."

"I know. If there's trouble, get word to me. I'll do what I can." Gallica assured her, "And I'll speak to Ulfric about it. If he would be king, then he can't afford to leave a situation like this unanswered among his people."

"I'm not sure I'm what the Jarl has in mind when he thinks about 'his people'." Suvaris replied, and shrugged, "But thank you."

They said their partings, and Gallica turned back towards the Palace. It would be some time before she could bring up her concerns about the Grey Quarter to Ulfric, more and more she could sense he was in no mood to discuss anything but war. In the meantime, however, though she was not looking forward to her conversation with Galmar, she could at least warn him to reign in his younger brother. It hadn't surprised her to learn that Rolff was related to the housecarl. That family seemed determined to plague her. Still, perhaps a different tactic was in order. It would please Ulfric if she played nicely with his general and you could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. After the scene in the study earlier, she felt the need to make a gesture of compromise, if only to shut Galmar up about the possibility of her being a spy and dispose them both to listen when she dissuaded them from attacking Balgruuf.

"My life was less complicated when there was just the dragons to worry about." She muttered, darkly, thinking out loud as she prepared herself for bad company.

~~0~~

The household was in the process of preparing for the evening meal, and so eventually Gallica found the housecarl near the guards' quarters, having just washed up.

"What is this 'initiation" you wanted to talk to me about?" she asked, trying not to let her dislike for the old bear show through too much. He surveyed her with a sardonic expression that immediately put her on edge. Such a _dovah_ she was becoming. She had learned to Shout like a dragon, and now she was learning to snarl like one.

"Ulfric told us quite the story about you. If you made it through all that, you might be worth something to me. But I want to see for myself." He grunted. _Yes, because saving the world counts for so little these days_, she thought, poisonously, but kept her peace. Let him posture and take shots at her if it made him feel important. He would know better soon enough, "First, tell me why a foreigner like you wants to fight for Skyrim."

"I made a promise to someone." Gallica said, tightly, with an expression that dared him to press her further about it. The older Nord's smirk fell, and she knew he understood well enough who she meant.

"You willing to die for him? You might have to." He asked seriously, dropping the attitude.

"Yes."

"More importantly, you willing to kill for him? Ulfric says you left the Legion, same as us. But I wonder…with those Imperial airs of yours…you think you can run a sword through a man wearing your old uniform? Because, Ulfric's woman or not, I'll gut you myself if you lose your nerve in the middle of a battle."

The question hit home harder than she wanted to admit, but she forced herself to swallow once more the gently simmering anger that had begun earlier in the day and now threatened to boil up again.

"I'll do what I have to do." She replied, through gritted teeth, "Tell me about this initiation."

"Fair enough. Before I trust you on the field, I need to see what you're made of. So, I have a little test for you."

"Fine, let's get it over with."

"That's what I like to hear." Galmar responded, grinning, "You may not be a waste of my time after all. I'm sending you to Serpentstone Island. There's a rock formation there, put up by the old Nords, draws Ice Wraiths to it for some reason. Go there. Kill an Ice Wraith, and bring me back the teeth. Do that, and I'll know what I need to know about you."

"Before I go," she said, "You should know your brother is making a nuisance of himself in the Grey Quarter again. You might want to rein him in before he gets hurt"

"Huh." The old soldier barked a short laugh, "The day those greyskins get bold enough to do anything about it will be the day the sun rises over the western mountains of Skyrim. Unless they've gotten you to do it for them again. I heard about that beating you gave Rolff. Stepped up and got what he asked for that time, but let me hear about you threatening my kin again and you'll have more to deal with than my brother. Rest of Skyrim may be impressed with the Dragonborn…Ulfric, too…but I'm not afraid of you. You'll bleed and die just like any of those boys the Empire sends out to do their dirty work for them."

"Just keep him out of the Grey Quarter." She repeated, sharply, and turned to go.

"Watch yourself." He called after her. She paused, trying to determine if it was a threat or not, and he continued, "Try not to die out there on the ice."

Without a reply, she stalked back off towards the main hall, feeling an impending headache begin to throb behind her eyes. Tests, ice wraiths. As much of an irritating waste of time as it seemed, she understood what the general was doing. He was establishing the pecking order, baiting her to see if she could take orders and reminding her that she hadn't yet paid her dues as far as he was concerned. Much as she hated to admit it, it was a smart move. If she resisted the task, or went running to Ulfric, he would know to count her as a liability. The best fighter in the world was no good to an army if she couldn't be trusted out to carry out the mission as assigned. Not to be out-soldiered, she would go kill the damned wraith if that's what it took to get on with the real business of this war. She still hoped to talk Ulfric into a treaty, but that would become impossible the instant he attacked Whiterun and she needed all the credibility with Ulfric and Galmar as she could get.


	6. Serpentstone Island

By the time the weather cleared, Gallica's armor was repaired and her gear was packed. She had a map and a bearing to find Serpentstone Island and everything she could think of that she would need to survive the bitter cold of the frozen sea north of Windhelm. While she was not looking forward to the journey ahead, she was beginning to find the prospect of getting out of Windhelm for a few days appealing.

"Come back to me." Ulfric told her, standing in the great hall before she left.

"I'm a Nord, as you say. Ice and snow are in my blood. I'll be back in a few days." She assured him.

Neither of them had mentioned the argument and, though she still felt distinctly uneasy with the situation, perhaps it was better so. Since coming to Windhelm, she often felt she was dealing with two different men. Ulfric the Jarl could infuriate her to no end, but it was harder to maintain her anger against Ulfric the man, who looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world and whom it was getting harder and harder to imagine her life without. And so, because nothing was certain and loved him, she accepted his embrace and his kiss warmly and smiled for his benefit.

"The sooner you go, the sooner you will return, then. When you get back, there is much to be done." He told her, his tone changing from lover to Jarl once more, and she nodded, shouldering her pack, and setting out into the cold on this fool's errand.

~~0~~

The countryside was layered with a thin blanket of snow, the dark trees and rocks laced with white beyond the walls. Her breath hung in the early morning air, but she was warm enough inside her armor and furs. With winter coming on, at least, the ice would be firm, less likely to crack and plunge her down to a frozen grave. It was good to be out in open country again, though. She quick-marched through the morning, to keep her body temperature up, and the exertion in her muscles and the miles of wilderness passing under her boots began to bleed away the restless claustrophobia that had set in on her in Windhelm. With her body occupied, her mind was free to wander.

Whether it had been her original intent or not, she had sided with Ulfric. He had seen to it that everyone of import knew where she was, and so it would be assumed that she was a Stormcloak sympathizer regardless of her true feelings. And what were those, she wondered? There were times when she could almost believe in Ulfric's cause. Perhaps the Empire _was_ dying, without a Septim on the throne. Perhaps Skyrim, drained by Cyrodiil beyond all tolerance, had a right to shuck off its oppressors. Of all people, she could understand what that was like. She had lost the bulk of her family to the War and its aftermath. Grandfather, father, brother…and mother, too, in a roundabout way. How many good people had to bleed their lives out for the Empire before it was enough?

Even as she entertained those seditious thoughts, she was aware of the deep and fundamental unease that they provoked. She had taken oaths. She had promised to defend the Emperor and the Empire as long as she lived. Did that not mean something? And it was easy enough to see what the Thalmor hoped would happen. The Empire crippled after wasting resources on quelling a rebellion, Skyrim in chaos. With Tamriel divided, the Dominion could descend upon them and sweep them all out like soiled floor-rushes.

_If your grandfather were here, what would he say?_, Tullius asked in her mind. That old barb was no less sharp after all these years. Gallica had never met her namesake. He had been killed in the last battle of the Great War several months before she was born, but his spectre had haunted her ever since. First, it had been her mother, sternly reminding her what she owed to family and name. Then, her schoolmasters, dutifully reminding her whenever she dozed off during a lecture that they would have expected better from the scion of a brilliant strategist. And then, of course, after her enlistment every commander she had served under had helpfully brought her heritage to her attention, either to goad her or to remind her of what she was supposed to be capable of.

_I'm not perfect like you were, old man, _she thought, bitterly, and immediately felt guilty for it. Everything she had ever heard or read of General Gallicus indicated that he was brilliant, honorable, a fine commander, and a good man. He could have left the field and retreated, but he stayed behind and died with his men, because he believed in the Empire and what he fought for. And here she was, his grand-daughter, almost twenty-six years later, aiding those who would undo everything he had fought for. That thought haunted her, no matter how she turned it over in her mind.

She reached the shore before nightfall and camped there under the twisting auroras, feeling like she was at the very end of the world. In the morning, she fitted steel spurs onto her boots for traversing the ice and took her bearings as well as she could by the position of the palid sun. Beasts and men she could handle, but nature was an unfeeling foe and she would kill you in a thousand ways without a thought if you let her. But the ice was thick and the weather was calm and Gallica pressed forward, moving carefully across the floes.

By noon, after hours of excruciatingly slow and exhausting travel, she spotted the crest of the island to the northwest. Feeling relief mixed with trepidation, she changed her course slightly, skirting a large patch of open water towards her destination, when suddenly she heard a spine-chilling crack. Freezing in place, she look around for the source of the sound only for her heart to jump into her throat as she noticed a jagged fissure running through the center of the ice flow she was standing on. _Careful_, she thought, trying to decide what to do. If she moved, she might open the fissure wider, and the section of ice that was being cleaved off from the main sheet could easily overturn with her on it. She couldn't stand here forever, though.

Carefully, she edged closer to the fissure, but stopped when she heard another, louder crack. Water was starting to see up through a portion of the opening and she eyed the cold patch of sea beside her. She could swim, but not easily in a hundred pounds of armor and furs, and she wouldn't survive more than a few minutes in the freezing water. _Try not to die out there on the ice_, Galmar said in her mind, and she felt her temper flare. She would get herself out of this. Ulfric was waiting on her and she would find a way to live forever, if it meant spiting Galmar Stone-Fist. Inhaling deeply, she concentrated on a spot many yards ahead of her, closer towards the island, and expelled the dragon Shout from her lungs.

"**Wuld nah kest!**"

Even as the sound pulled her body through the air behind it, as if she were being sucked into place by a vacuum, she heard a final loud crunch and groan as the ice sheet broke free and tipped. When the wind released her, she skidded and felt the new ice beneath her feet rock and grind in protest of the force she had exerted upon it. Digging her spurs in, she fell to a crouch and came to rest nearly a foot from the dark water. Looking back, she saw that the floe she had been standing on seconds before had rolled over and was now floating free in the channel. If she had stayed still a moment longer, she would have been dumped into the sea.

"Thank the Nine." She breathed, relief overwhelming her, but the danger wasn't over yet. Picking herself up, she surveyed her new location and plotted a new course for the island, taking her time and going out of her way to keep to the center of the flows where the ice would be the thickest. There was no need to tempt fate twice in one day.

~~0~~

Killing the wraith, once she had made her way to the island, was almost an afterthought, but then this mission wasn't a test of her prowess as a warrior so much as it was a test of her obedience. The stupid creatures would attack anything that moved and fought without art or intelligence, and so luring one out from the stones and smashing it was hardly much of a chore compared to other battles she'd fought. With the teeth safely secured, she took a moment to study the great standing stones, appreciating a sight that she guessed few living people had seen, and then steeled herself for the trek back across to the mainland.

The weather was beginning to turn again and she guessed it would be dark long before she reached the shore. With the year grinding down into the freezing entropy of winter, daylight was short and precious, especially this far north. Still, it was more dangerous to camp out here on the ice than it was to keep going, so she forged on despite being dog-tired and colder than she had ever been in her life. All those forced marches as a young recruit _had_ built character, she told herself, making the attempt at humor. By the time she reached land again, her boots soaked and hoar-frost crusting her furs and eyebrows, she vowed that she would never set foot off dry land again if she could help it. There was little enough wood to be had, and what there was was too snow-dampened to light, so she dug herself a windbreak against a rock and hunkered down for an uncomfortable night.

In some bizarre way, perhaps this was a microcosm for what being a Nord was all about, she thought as she shivered in the darkness. She couldn't imagine a Legion officer asking her to go through all this trouble and risk her life for something so fundamentally petty. But the Nords had peculiar ideas about what was important compared to the orderly rational of the Imperials, as she had so often seen. Maybe sheer stubbornness in the face of nature and the willingness to do foolish things simply on principle were the foundation of Nord culture. That would certainly explain Ulfric and Galmar, as well as a number of other people she had met since she had come here. If so, then she supposed that this proved she was just as hard-headed and Nord-blooded as they were, since she had done all this solely to prove Galmar wrong. Maybe that was what he had been getting at when he had decided to send her to this Divines-forsaken place, to try and awaken some deep-rooted ancestral sense of bloody-mindedness in her.

~~0~~

When dawn came, she shook off the inch of snow that had piled up on her overnight and set off for the city, trudging in a trance-like, sleep deprived daze. Damn the war, all she cared about now was that there was a warm bed and some decent food waiting for her somewhere. When she saw the peaked roof of the Palace of the Kings in the distance, finally, she quickened her pace, eager for home. No sooner had she entered the gates, though, skirting the main plaza towards the Palace, when someone called to her. She squinted wearily, to see a Dunmer man hurrying over.

"Dragonborn…" he panted, "You know my…my sister Suvaris…"

Immediately, Gallica roused herself, her throat catching. The man looked distraught, and she felt a sense of dread sweep over her.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I've told the guards, but they said they can't prove anything and there's nothing they can do…" the Dunmer replied, "Rolff Stone-Fist…he…"

"Show me." She demanded, cutting him off, and hurried after him into the Grey Quarter, everything else forgotten.


	7. Sundered

The Atheron residence was well-lit when they arrived, despite the lateness of the hour. Gallica could hear a low murmur from elsewhere in the house as she removed her helm, and then footsteps as another Dunmer man…Suvaris' brother Aval if she had to guess…emerged from the side room. His face creased with anger as he saw her.

"What is she doing here? Faryl?"

"Suvaris is my friend." Gallica soothed, and the other brother stepped up beside her.

"She's the Dragonborn, brother. She can help."

"Huh, the same one that's been toadying around with Ulfric and his cronies. I'm surprised you'd allow yourself to be seen down here with us _greyskins_…" The merchant shot back, venomously, but he turned as a soft voice spoke from the back room.

"Aval? Who is it?"

"No one. She's just leaving."

A slim form appeared in the doorway, brushing back dark hair from a familiar face, and Gallica's hand went to her mouth in shock. Suvaris' face was badly bruised, dark purple against her normally dark-bluish skin. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and she could see the silvery seam of a scar on her cheek, as if a gash had recently been healed. Her hair was ragged, as if some of it had been yanked out.

"Gallica." The elf woman said, her voice thin and weary, as she turned away slightly as if to hide her face. Gallica moved over to her and laid a hand on her friend's shoulder. Suvaris winced slightly.

"Are you alright? Who did this?"

"Aval gave me some potions for the worst of it. I'm alright, but…I was lucky he came home when he did. Rolff and some of his friends paid me a 'visit'. Like they said they would."

"But _why?_" Gallica exclaimed, outraged.

"Do they need a reason?" Aval asked, bitterly, "They walk up and down our roads almost every night shouting threats and obscenities at us. And what do the guards do about it? Nothing. By the Eight, they could have killed her…"

"The guards have to do something, _this..._this is unacceptable!_"_

"I went to the guards first." Faryl said, shaking his head, "They said that since no one else saw it, we have no proof that it was Rolff and they can't do anything but keep an extra watch on the road."

"If it was one of their own women, they'd be knocking down his door right now." Aval growled.

"It was Rolff." Suvaris repeated, certainly. The look on her face as she looked up at Gallica was heartbreaking, "He said I was a spy for sure and snitching on him to the Dragonborn proved it."

Gallica stared at her friend for a long moment, shaking her head and clenching her fingers into a fist, though she had nowhere to put it. This was absolutely not to be tolerated. Perhaps it was because she was overstressed from her journey tonight, or perhaps it was just the buildup of so many days of tension in general, but this was the last straw. She had thought Galmar would be smart enough to see that tormenting the elves was unproductive and keep his brother under his thumb, but apparently he couldn't even manage that. Or maybe he just didn't care. If the guards wouldn't deal with it…and she knew that they knew as well as anyone else in the city who was threatening the dark elves …then she would. Good timing or not, Ulfric was going to hear about this. Tonight.

"_This place reeks of greyskin filth!"_ someone yelled further up the lane. Like overstretched strings on a lute, something inside Gallica snapped.

"Stay inside." She told the Atherons, and turned on her heel towards the door.

"What are you going to do?" Faryl called after her.

"What I should have done the first time." She replied, almost a mutter, and slammed the door behind her.

The night was cold, but the clouds had cleared up, and the stars glimmered down through the narrow strip of sky between the ramshackle roofs like needles of ice. Gallica jammed her helmet onto her head, and listened, her blood thrumming through her temples like a war drum.

"_You like living in this filthy slum, dark elves? Maybe you should go back to Morrowind, where you belong!_"

She turned in the direction of the echoes, and stalked through the street, her breath steaming in front of her around and through the fearsome visage of her dragon helm, as if she were a true _dov. _To the men standing in front of the cornerclub, she may as well have been, and they chose that moment to duck back inside. As she rounded the curve of the road, she saw Rolff and three other men meandering through the narrow streets. They were clearly drunk, their laughs, crude comments, and insults echoing off of the stones. She headed directly for Rolff…as always, in the lead.

"Dragonborn…" Rolff called to her as he spotted her, grinning like an idiot as she marched towards him, "Fancy seein' you here. Care to join us?"

Before he or his friends knew what had happened, she was upon them. With every bit of force she could muster, she slammed her fist into Rolff Stone-Fist's face. There was a sickening crunch and he crumpled with a wet, agonized groan.

"Hey!" one of the other men cried out, but they seemed rooted to the spot, staring with open mouths as she reached down and grabbed their compatriot by the shirt and drug him back up right.

"You think you're funny?" she roared at him, as she slammed him into the wall. She was pulling no punches this time. Blood was running down Rolff's face as he gibbered in shock and anger, "Did you laugh when you were beating that poor elf woman earlier? Is this not as amusing to you? Go on, you wretched sack of filth. _Laugh_."

For a second, he seemed to marshal enough to courage to fight back, trying to throw a punch back at her with a gurgled threat and she slammed against the wall again, her gauntleted fingers closing around his throat.

"Not so fun when it's happening to you, is it?" she snarled. His friends finally galvanized themselves enough to try to aid him and she whirled on them, feeling the Shout erupt from her throat as if it had been building in her lungs all this time, waiting, "**Fus ro!**"

The men were flung back up the road several feet, tumbling into each other, and she turned her attention back on Rolff, whose eyes had gone wide with terror, as he pried at her fingers clenched at his throat.

"I've fought beside dark elves." She seethed, her voice low and menacing, "E_very single one of them_ was a better and braver man or woman than you could ever hope to be. Call them grey-skin filth again, Rolff. Exercise some of that fabled Nord courage that allows you to terrorize innocent civilians and say it to my face."

"What's going on here?" a voice demanded from nearby, and she glanced up to see a contingent of guards standing nearby, where the other thugs were trying to pick themselves up off of the stairs. The guards had their weapons drawn.

"Just dealing with a disturbance." Gallica replied, calmly. The guard craned his neck to see who she had pinned to the wall and then exchanged a glance with his fellows.

"We're going to have to ask you to come with us, Dragonborn."

"And where would we be going?"

"We'll escort you back to the Palace."

Gallica smiled, grimly, and pulled Rolff roughly upright, shoving him along in front of her.

"That's a fine idea. Let's all go together. I'm sure Jarl Ulfric will have something to say about all this."

The guards hesitated, but Gallica had already pushed past them, her whimpering charge in front of her, and so they fell cautiously in line behind her. What could they do? As she walked, Gallica had the dreadful, sickening feeling that tonight was the night when everything was going to change. The storm that had been building over the last month was breaking. Whether it was for better or worse, she could not say.

~~0~~

The doors to the Palace echoed like thunder as they shut behind her, mingling with the sounds of clanking armor and Rolff's pained snuffling. The light was dim, the torches smoldering in their brackets. It was late, she remembered. Galmar, burning the midnight-oil apparently, stepped out of the war room, reaching for his axe and then pausing in surprise.

"Dragonb…" he began, and then spotted his brother. His face twisted and reddened with anger, "Rolff?"

"It turns out your brother is even denser than he looks, Galmar." Gallica said, almost flippantly. She was too angry to care what he thought about anything right now. If he attacked her in a fit of rage, she would even welcome it. _Give me an excuse_, she thought, eying the speechless housecarl, _I'll take anything right now_.

"What…" the general started and stopped, clearly trying to restrain himself.

"Send for Ulfric. I don't want to tell this story twice." She snapped. Several servants had clustered timidly at the door on the far side of the hall and she nodded to them. One scurried off towards the upper rooms to fetch her master. The uncomfortable moments ticked by, Galmar looking like he might explode at any moment, Rolff trying to wipe the blood from his face, now flowering with dark purple bruises, and the guards standing around awkwardly clearly wishing they could just blend into the stonework of the walls.

Finally, Ulfric strode in, looking hastily dressed, his expression a mixture of vexation and confusion. He looked from her to Rolff to Galmar, and cleared his throat.

"Dragonborn, I assume you can explain this."

"This man badly abused Suvaris Atheron, a citizen of your city tonight. Your guards failed to respond despite it being reported to them and, being in the neighborhood, I took it upon myself to do their job for them."

Ulfric frowned deeply, looking at his carl.

"Is this true?"

"She was just a bloody elf. Thought she was an Imperial spy." Rolff snuffled, wetly. Gallica was tempted to backhand him again, but instead her eyes lit on Ulfric, just in time to see his expression relax a little. _Oh, an elf_, she imagined him thinking, tensing.

"Ysmir's beard…" Galmar swore.

"I think this can wait until morning." Ulfric said, glancing warily at Gallica, before turning to Galmar, "Galmar, see to it your brother makes it home. And that he stays there."

"You can't be serious." Gallica exclaimed, incredulously, stabbing a finger at the younger Stone-Fist, "This _thug_ belongs in a prison cell! If he was terrorizing Nords rather than elves, that's where he would have been a long time ago!"

"Watch what accusations you throw around, woman. I don't see a beaten elf standing here, just my brother's blood on your hands." Growled Galmar, stepping towards her.

"Don't stand there and pretend you didn't know about his late night strolls through the Grey Quarter!" she shot back, "Did I not warn you this would happen?"

"And I remember telling you to keep your damned hands off my kin!"

"Enough, both of you!" Ulfric roared. He looked between them, angrily, "You, take him away. I don't care where. You, stay here. I have some things to say to you."

"I demand justice." she insisted, forcing her voice to remain constant, returning his glare in equal measure. The very air seemed to sizzle around them, and no one moved until she thrust a finger at Rolff, "You ask my help to free Skyrim. Is _this_ the Skyrim you want, Ulfric? Is this what I am supposed to fight for?"

"You will _not_ disrespect the Jarl in my presence…" Galmar thundered, drawing his axe. She faced him, teeth bared, prepared to fight, to do anything, but Ulfric stepped forward, holding up his hand. His eyes smoldered with wrath, angrier than she had seen him since that day at Helgen.

"I have allowed you the right to speak freely with me, Dragonborn," he said, coldly, and she could tell he was struggling to hold his temper, "But you are _dangerously_ close to overstepping my tolerance. Stand down…_now_…and I will attribute your behavior to fatigue from your journey. We will discuss this in the morning."

Gallica stared at him, shaking her head, feeling as if she was about to be sick. She understood now the thing she had refused to let herself see or think about since she had come here. Nothing would happen to Rolff or, if it did, it would only be a gesture to keep her happy and Galmar would see to it that it was a minor slap on the wrist at that. Too many of Ulfric's supporters and soldiers held similar beliefs for him to take a public stand in favor of the elves. And, she knew now, he didn't _care_. All he cared about was winning and becoming High King. She was just another jewel in the crown he was planning for himself, a legendary queen for a legendary king, and no matter how much he might actually love her, he would always love himself and his legend more.

Without a word, she turned her back on him and strode toward the doors.

"Dragonborn!" he shouted, but she only quickened her pace. Somewhere behind her, she heard Galmar start after her, but Ulfric stopped him tersely, his voice only an echo as she reached the doors, "Let her go. She'll come back when she's calmed down."

But she would not go back. And as she broke into a run on the moon-washed streets, she did not care where she was going either, only that it was somewhere far, far away from here.

* * *

_This chapter was hard to write, I admit. I'm a romantic at heart, so it's just my nature to always try and create a happily ever after for the Designated Love Interests. But it doesn't always end up that way, and rightly so. Gallica and Ulfric are very similar people, which is why they gravitate towards each other so well, but their principles and desires are fundamentally different. Both of them can only bend so far. So, as much as Gallica wants to make it work between them and no matter how she feels about Ulfric, I couldn't see her fighting for the Stormcloaks if it meant rubbing shoulders with racists and betraying Balgruuf's trust (that scene where he's all like "I would have thought better of you" made me tear up for realz). But, as they say, it isn't over yet. Anything can happen._


	8. Taking Sides

_Thank you for the comments and the follows! I'm pleased to know that so many people are getting into the story. It's taken me a couple of weeks to get this section finished, mostly because I ended up rewriting it three times and RL stuff got in the way. Hopefully, it being a bit longer will make up for the wait. :) Enjoy!_

* * *

Gallica was trudging up the muddy road just south of Windhelm when the impossibility of the situation dawned on her. It was the middle of the night, cold, and the wilderness was full of dangers even this close to the city. She was so tired she could hardly see straight and the battle-rush that had sustained her through the last hour had worn off. Finally, she stopped, exhaling a long breath that hung in the air before her, and turned to look back at the city. It shone like a beacon under the dark-clouded sky, the light snowfall casting a hazy halo around the torches of the distant Palace. She should go back, perhaps check into the Candlehearth for the night. It was the only sensible thing to do. But Gallica was not feeling sensible at the moment.

She had never been angrier at another person in her life, but she still loved Ulfric. She had never felt as dirty as she did around the likes of Galmar Stonefist and his idiot brother and, she realized now, if she stayed it would only get worse, but the alternatives broke her heart. Ulfric was right about one thing: the time for talk was over with. She could no longer fool herself into thinking there was a diplomatic solution to this war. Even if Tullius would accept a settlement…a surrender and repayment, perhaps, in exchange for leaving Ulfric's life and title intact…Ulfric was too proud and too far under the influence of his own rhetoric to offer it. It was time for action, but what? How could she fight for Ulfric when he railed about justice and freedom in one breath and allowed such heinous injustice run rampant in his own city? But, in turn, how could she fight for a struggling Empire against the man she loved? One side or the other was going to force her hand eventually, and so she may as well choose the side she could live with before she was press-ganged into anything.

She could not decide in Windhelm. She needed to be able to think straight, and being in proximity to Ulfric made that nearly impossible. Whiterun was off-limits for now as well. Ulfric would already have agents in the city, and if she was seen there he would have to assume she had betrayed his plans to Balgruuf. It would provoke an incident. Retreating to High Hrothgar would buy her some peace and quiet, but she felt she had already imposed upon the monks enough and this did not seem like the sort of problem that could be solved by meditation. The Greybeards did not concern themselves with the world. The civil war was beneath them, both literally and figuratively. That left only one place where she knew she could tread safely, largely outside of Stormcloak and Imperial influence.

With a deep breath, she turned and started back up the slope. Kynesgrove was just a mile or two over the hill. She would sleep at the inn there for a few hours, double back in the morning to buy a horse, and then be on her way. Ulfric would be livid when…if…she returned, but he would either understand or he wouldn't and either way the separation would give him time to think as well. It was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

~~0~~

Morthal was much as Gallica had left it, a festering huddle of shacks and docks situated on the southern rim of the Hjaalmarsh. The flames of the guard's torches bobbed like wisps through the mist that was rising up from the swamps in the evening chill, but the lights and smoke from Highmoon Hall were like a beacon as she descended from the ridge into the town. The people here knew her, but the few that were still out on the dirt road through town only hurried past with barely a glance. Those who came to Morthal came there to get away from everyone else making it a community of veritable hermits, stolid and suspicious of other people. It was a relief, in a way, to simply be ignored.

With her horse tended to and her gear stowed at the inn, Gallica made her way back to the Jarl's hall to see to the formalities. Idgrod Ravencrone did not keep as grand an estate as the Jarls of Whiterun and Windhelm, but Gallica had always found the dim, smoky hall more fitting to its resident. The embers of the fire cast eerie shadows in the rafters as the few servants and family members moved around the hearth. From elsewhere, she could smell dinner being prepared, and her stomach knotted, reminding her that she had not eaten more than a handful of dried rations all day.

"A familiar face comes into my hall." Croaked the woman on the High Seat at the back of the room. The Jarl's dark eyes glimmered like a crow's, her expression knowing. Even without her enormous hulk of a housecarl standing in the shadows behind her, even with the frailties of age setting in, she commanded attention and respect, "You are welcome here, Gallica Dragonborn."

"Jarl Idgrod." Gallica replied, respectfully clasping her fist to her chest. More than any other Jarl of her acquaintance, she always found herself acting more formal and polite around the old mystic. Her father's influence, she thought, as he had always carried the same deep suspicion of magic that his Skyrim-born ancestors had.

"We have heard word of your deeds. News comes slowly to Morthal, but it comes. And now you have come here yourself."

"I had hoped to rest here for a few days." She explained, self-consciously, "…and perhaps seek your counsel on a matter."

"Ah, yes." The crone said, her wrinkles deepening as she smiled, "Man can be more dangerous…and more vicious…than any dragon. And the gods have strewn both in your path, I see."

Before Gallica could reply, the Jarl made a gesture with her bony hand.

"We will speak of this tomorrow. Dine with us tonight. My hospitality is yours. I will consult the gods on your behalf and see what they are willing to show me."

Recognizing when she had been dismissed, Gallica nodded her thanks and moved away. The servants were setting up for the evening meal, and she tried to stay out of their way. Finally, as the household assembled, she took up a spot on one of the benches that had been set in place along the walls that was towards the middle of the hall. Over the last few months, she had gotten the hang of Nord etiquette and was relieved that no one seemed to expect her to take a place of high precedence as the Dragonborn.

As she settled in and accepted a drinking horn from the serving girl, the legate that had been stationed here when she had last passed through…Taurinus, if she remembered correctly…emerged from the drawing room, pausing in his tracks as he noticed her. The look he gave her was colder than the wind on the frozen sea had been, and she saw him glance at the already filled benches on the other side of the hall before tightening his expression and moving past her to take up the empty space on the bench to her right. He said nothing, didn't even look at her, and she returned the favor, awkwardly.

Idgrod had no bard, and so the hall filled with the gentle susurrus of conversation as the food was served. To her left, Idgrod the Younger was fussing over her younger brother, who appeared paler than the last time Gallica had seen him. He stared at her with eyes eerily similar to his mother's, unnerving in so young a child. And so with uneasy company on one side and frigid on the other, Gallica turn her gaze on the hearth and tried to concentrate on her food and in the heat that was helping the riding soreness in her muscles unknot.

"Morthal is quite a distance from Windhelm." Taurinus said, finally. Although, he didn't look at her, the tension in his voice and in the muscles of his jaw said it all. If this legate, posted out here in the swamps in the last place of notice to the Stormcloaks, knew where she had been, then Tullius certainly did.

"I have business with Jarl Idgrod." She replied, careful to keep her tone friendly.

"Then I would keep your business short and move on quickly. Morthal has problems enough without Stormcloaks and their rabble-rousing."

"I'm not here to rabble-rouse." She replied, "And I am not a Stormcloak."

He turned and looked at her then, his lip curled with disdain.

"You may not wear the armor…and that's the only reason you aren't under arrest, Jarl's guest or not…but you aren't fooling anyone, so spare me."

And there it was. Gallica lowered her plate to her knees and looked him in the eye.

"Legate, I don't know what you've heard, but I'm not here at the Stormcloak's behest. You have my word."

"The word of a rebel?" he snorted, but he eyed her warily, as if trying to determine if she was serious, "Why _are_ you here, then?"

"As I said, I've come to seek Jarl Idgrod's counsel on a personal matter."

He arched an eyebrow, a comment to himself, and upended his drinking horn, holding it out for the servant to refill.

"If its counsel you're after, here's some from me: get yourself away from Ulfric Stormcloak and Windhelm. There are enough heads bound for the chopping block already without adding more."

The image of Ulfric, gagged, standing before the headsman's block on that day in Helgen flashed through her mind, and Gallica winced, as if physically struck. The legate must have noticed, because he turned a pointed glare on her.

"Listen. You did a good thing for Morthal when you were here. If half of the things these Nords say about you is true, then you're a hero. Fine. But you're on the wrong side now. The Stormcloaks swagger and boast, but after a hard winter of fighting most of them will be beating a trail back to their farms with their tails between their legs. Being the Dragonborn or whatever it is they call you won't save your neck when the reckoning comes around. You think about that. And I think we're done here."

With that, he lapsed into a cold silence, tearing into a chunk of bread with more force than was necessary. Rebuffed, Gallica finished her food, waited for a tactful moment to step out, and headed back for the inn. She couldn't blame Taurinus, but his reaction to her had cut her more deeply than she had thought possible. She had left the Legion, but she realized she had never really stopped thinking like a soldier. The army had been her extended family for the better part of her life. You could fight with your family, you could even dislike them, but you always looked out for each other. Being shunned by someone that she would otherwise have regarded as a comrade was deeply unsettling.

"You're back." Lurbuk said cheerfully, when she got to the inn. The orcish bard's toothy grin was as hopeful as it was hideous, "The Dragonborn! I could sing for you…maybe "The Dragonborn Comes"…fitting, right?"

The single patron who had taken up residence in the corner groaned and stood, staggering out of the inn as the innkeeper pursed her lips and shook her head in consternation. Gallica felt sorry for the orc, but she was in no mood to hear anything about the Dragonborn tonight, even to assuage his feelings. And so she fished a few coins out of her pouch and handed them to the would-be bard.

"Not tonight." She said, as kindly as she could, "And if you refrain from singing it while I'm here, I'll give you more before I leave. I've heard all I can stand of the Dragonborn lately."

With that, she went into her room and shut the door behind her. She would hear what Idgrod had to say tomorrow and she would make a decision. East or west, or out of Skyrim altogether, the only relief she was going to get was to choose one.

~~0~~

Idgrod was waiting when Gallica arrived in the hall the following morning. Not one to stand on ceremony, she was up and, stiffly, moving towards the war room before the formalities could be observed.

"Off with you." She commanded Taurinus, who was studying a map to one side. He looked up, his expression darkening as his eyes lit on Gallica, but the Jarl made a dismissing gesture, "Go, go, go. Go take a walk. Too much staring at maps and not enough fresh is air is what makes you Imperials all so stuffy. Go on."

Affronted, but realizing that he was a guest in the hall, the legate straightened and walked out, trying to retain as much dignity as he could after being shooed away like a puppy. Once he was gone, the Jarl of Morthal smiled at Gallica and took a seat in one of the chairs, indicating the other. Feeling embarrassed on the soldier's behalf, she self-consciously complied.

"The man skulks around in here too much. A little sunlight…such as it is here…will do him good. Now, you wanted my advice on your current situation with Ulfric Stormcloak, hmm?"

Gallica blinked, her mouth dropping open slightly. Idgrod grinned at her discomfort.

"You needn't look surprised, girl. Every Jarl in Skyrim knows who has been seen in the Palace of the Kings these last few weeks. And it isn't as if the man has made a secret out of his plans. It doesn't take a seer to count two and two together."

"I see." Gallica managed to say, swallowing, as she felt the back of her neck begin to prickle. Idgrod was a crafty old woman behind her stately title, but who knew how much of her gifts were intellectual and how much originated elsewhere?

"And, like every young woman, you are conflicted. Should you accept the foibles and faults of this man or try your luck with the other one?"

"The other one?"

"There is always an 'other one'. If you have not already seen it, then I think you will soon enough." The Jarl explained, dismissively, still smiling her eerie smile. She shook her head, "Your problem is that you ask the wrong questions."

"What do you mean?" Gallica asked, frowning, feeling like she had completely lost track of the conversation somewhere between the time she had entered the room and now.

"You worry about which side will…_should_…win. That's a simple question, and the answer should be apparent. The side you choose will win."

"But I don't want to choose a side."

"Then both will lose." Idgrod replied, shrugging her thin shoulders, "Even your refusal to take a side is a choice in someone's favor. Better that you choose one you know than one you don't know, eh?"

"Why me?" Gallica protested, restlessly, feeling her pulse begin to throb in her temples, "Why has all this been laid at my feet?"

"You are the Dragonborn. You might as well wonder why your eyes are blue and not green or the sun rises in the east and not the west. For reasons known only to the Divine, Akatosh has set you…_you_ particularly…down in this time and place and bound your will to the flow of Time, and you cannot change that any more than you can change your eyes or the sun. It is simply how things are."

"You say that I'm asking the wrong questions." Gallica said, finally, turning the concept over in her mind as she tried to make sense of it, "What is the right question, then?"

"Ask yourself, Gallica Dragonborn…what world do _you_ want to live in? Ulfric's paradise of free Nords? The order and continuity of an aging Empire? Would you have it all swept away in favor of something new? Or would you follow the example of Talos and take power for yourself?"

"I've never wanted power." She responded, vehemently, wearily, "All I wanted when I came here was to be left alone, to be no one's pawn anymore."

"Ah." Idgrod smiled, almost sadly, "But we are all pawns to something or someone. You, at least, can choose the hand that plays you. That is more than most of us are afforded."

So, she was still stuck. The thought of fighting for and with people like Galmar Stone-fist, even in a cause that she could sympathize with, was abhorrent. The idea that Windhelm was a model for what the rest of Skyrim might become if Ulfric won was disturbing in the extreme. But at the same time, if he lost…Gallica couldn't bear to imagine it.

"And if my mind says one thing and my heart another?"

The old mystic studied her for a long moment before replying.

"I see dark days ahead for Skyrim, regardless of who wins or loses this war. Akatosh has bestowed a divine gift on you. And so, it would seem, has Mara. In her mercy, I do not think she would have laid it upon you to increase your burden. This, too, is part of the path laid out before you. And love has a way of finding its way through the darkness."

For a moment, she pondered the soothsaying, and then an idea kindled in her mind and began to grow. _Make the world you want to live in_, she thought,_ love will find a way_.

"Thank you." She told Idgrod, rising, "I think I know what I have to do."

The Jarl's smile broadened and she nodded, silently. Gallica turned, hurrying out of the room and back towards the inn to collect her belongings and her horse. It was still early enough that she could make her destination by nightfall, and she would not take the chance of letting her resolve waiver again. The time for action was now.

~~0~~

The lanterns were being lit along the main boulevard of Solitude when Gallica stepped through the gates. Having made no secret of her approach, in her dragon armor and riding in full view of the guards for the better part of the last mile, she had half-expected to be arrested almost immediately. That they had let her stable her horse and enter the city without stopping her was potentially a good sign, but she could not relax yet. Much hinged on what she found in Castle Dour, and it could still go either way. If she faltered or if she had misjudged the situation, then it could go very badly indeed, but she still had to try.

The guards at the gates of the castle eyed her warily, by which she guessed that they knew exactly who she was, but they did not stop her. The guards posted at the entrance to the keep did, however, but only long enough to ask her name. One escorted her inside without even asking who she was there to see. So, she was expected. She had been right in her assumption that Tullius had set a watch for her. He couldn't be ignorant of where she had been, and so there were many reasons he would now allow her to come to him, both good and ill. She would know soon enough.

The inside of the castle was dim and cramped…it had been built with defense in mind, rather than comfort, after all…but the torches and candles were still lit in the downstairs war-room. Gallica felt her chest constrict, her heartbeat loud in her ears as if she was about to go into battle. This was her last chance to back out. She had made her decision, though. Steeling herself, she stepped across the threshold and into the larger room.

Tullius, Rikke, and another legate were standing in the center of the room, discussing, and all three looked up when she entered, their expression deadly serious. Rikke frowned, aggresively. There was a tense, awkward silence that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, before Tullius cleared his throat.

"You're dismissed." The general told the guard, who beat a hasty and no doubt grateful retreat. Gallica could not decide if that was a good sign or a bad one. His expression was impassive, unreadable, but she knew he was judging her every move, trying to read her intentions just as much as she wanted to read his, "Well, Gallica…I assume this isn't a social call."

"No." she said, and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Don't keep us in suspense, then." He replied, attempting wry humor even through the tension, "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I was hoping to speak with you." She replied, adding, "In private. Please."

"You have a lot of nerve…" Rikke erupted, hot-head as always, but a gesture from Tullius stopped her before she could move towards Gallica. She stepped back, scowling, and shook her head. The general considered for a moment, his aquiline features more hawkish than normal in the toch-light.

"Leave us." He told the officers, finally.

"Sir!" Rikke protested, but he shook head.

"She's not here to put a sword through me, Legate. She's smarter than that. Post yourself near the door if it'll make you feel better. I'll handle this."

Reluctantly, with a final glare at Gallica, Rikke retreated along with the other man, leaving the two of them alone. Tullius crossed his arms, smiling humorlessly at her, his posture conveying nonchalance, though she noticed he maintained his distance, one hand never too far from his sword.

"Say what you've come to say. Windhelm's a long ride from here to waste time on pleasantries."

The light jab had its intended effect, and she paused, embarrassed, before she was able to continue.

"You told me at High Hrothgar that you expected to see me in Solitude when everything was resolved. I'm here to report in."

An eyebrow raised, and he shook his head with a silent chuckle.

"You make a poor spy, Gallica. You're too honest."

"I know how it looks." She insisted, looking him in the eye, trying to make him understand, "I wouldn't believe it either, but I swear to you that I am not a spy."

"I'd like to believe you." He remarked, casually, "But…well, you see the position this puts me in. Everyone in Skyrim knows where you've been. It's not that simple anymore."

"I let…other factors…get in the way of my judgment." She said, straightening, "But I'm here now. You were right when you said there were no ex-Legionnaires. If the Empire still needs me, then I've come to honor my oaths."

"Fine words, but you surely don't expect me just to trust you. You're too much of a security risk right now."

"I'll re-enlist. Bust me back to the rank and file and stick me on a wall top somewhere, it doesn't make a difference to me at this point. I'll go where I'm told." Gallica replied, and hesitated, "I do have one request, though."

"No. If you're serious about re-enlisting, it'll be as a soldier, not a mercenary." He interrupted, severely, "You either come back in on the Legion's terms or not at all. I don't have time for rogues and conditions and people bucking the system, and I don't care how special the Nords think you are. I can use you, you're an asset, but you'd be an asset sitting in a dungeon where Ulfric can't parade you around, as well. If I agree to give you the chance to prove yourself, it'll be as any other soldier. Are we clear on that?"

"Completely. I'm with you whether you agree or not." She clarified, and hesitated. She looked up at him, waiting there for the other shoe to drop, "I'm not asking as the Dragonborn, I'm not asking you as a commander. This is a personal request of someone I consider a friend."

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers, and she thought she saw a glimpse of some deeper emotion, the same momentary vulnerability she had seen when he had left her room on High Hrothgar that night.

"What?"

"Take Ulfric alive." She said, pressing on as she saw his expression change, before he could reply, "I know it's war, things happen that no one has any control over and there a thousand ways he could die before it's over with, but I'm asking you: if it's possible, if there's a moment where you get to make the call, take him alive. Please."

"You know he has to die one way or the other." He replied, frankly, "He murdered the High King, started a rebellion. Those are serious charges and we can't let them go unanswered. Whether he dies in battle or whether we execute him later, he's finished. You have to understand that."

_Not if I can help it_, she thought, but nodded.

"I know. All the same."

"I'm not sure whether what you're asking is mercy or cruelty. Seems a quick death on the field would be cleaner." He concluded, with a sigh, "And I can't promise anything. But, if it's within my power, I'll spare Ulfric Stormcloak until a trial can decide his fate."

"That's all I ask." She replied, relieved. He grunted, his expression thoughtful and inward, before turning his attention sharply back to her.

"But, that's a question for the future. Right now, you've got a lot of work to do before you've earned my trust and your place here back. Report to Rikke in the morning. Convince her that you're worth it, then we'll talk about reinstating you."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Gallica saluted and turned to find her way back to the courtyard, her mind a roiling mixture of conflicting thoughts. On one side, she was relieved to finally have done with it and she felt she was making the best choice for the most people, and the only conscionable choice she could have made personally, but at the same time she was terribly afraid. Afraid both for Ulfric…for his life, his well-being…and of what he would think and do when he found out what she had done. The wheels were in motion now, and there was no stopping it. Maybe he would hate her when this was over with, but if her plan worked, at least he would still be alive and Skyrim would have the best chance of fending off the Thalmor when they returned. And, even if he never forgave her for it, that was all she wanted.

* * *

_Okay, so a bunch of you Stormcloak fans are probably in a tizzy, right? ) It's not over yet._


	9. The Oath

_As a couple folks have pointed out, yeah, there are a few misspellings, etc. I try to proof-read a couple times and force the long-suffering DH to listen to passages read out loud so I can see where I've typoed, but I don't catch everything. I will probably go back and fix typos at some point, but for now, apologies if it's a major issue for anyone. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

"So." Rikke said when Gallica presented herself at the keep the following morning, "I'm told that you want to re-enlist."

The older soldier's tone was curt, business-like, and there was no trace of last night's anger. Gallica had no illusions that the Legate was well-pleased with the situation, but she knew enough of Rikke by now to know that the woman was a good soldier. If Tullius had given her an order, she would follow it. That didn't mean she was going to make it easy, though.

"Yes, ma'am."

"General Tullius thinks you deserve a chance to prove yourself. Fair enough. After everything that happened with the dragons, you could be useful and, if you're really past your recent 'lapse of judgment', my gut tells me you could be worth a second look. So, show me that you're competent, loyal, and willing to follow orders, and I'll recommend you for reinstatement."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Skyrim is dotted with old forts. Most of them haven't been garrisoned in ages, but we're trying to bring some of the most usefully situated ones back into service. Unfortunately, places like that attract bandits and other undesirables. I'm sending you up to Fort Hraagstad northwest of here to deal with the bandits and clear out the fort so we can put a garrison up there to watch the coast."

"I'm going alone?" Gallica asked, her heart sinking. While not as frivolous as the task Galmar had set for her, it was no less reckless. Sending one person to clear out a couple dozen bandits in a fortified position, normally a job for a squadron, would be a suicide mission under most circumstances. She had not figured Rikke for the subtle type, but it was more than possible that the Legate was hoping Gallica wouldn't come back at all, neatly solving the problem of whether she could be trusted or not.

"Not so confident after all, then?" Rikke grinned, meanly, "Yes. This is a test. You're no green recruit. I know about your previous service, and you've been out killing dragons for the last few months. I could just slap a set of armor on you and send you out on ground patrols with the others, but that would be a waste of talent. I want to see what you're capable of."

"By your orders." Gallica replied, resigned, and Rikke nodded in satisfaction.

"Good, that's what I wanted to hear. Take a look at the map, get your gear together, and go make it happen."

She saluted and walked over to the map to find the best route to the fort, mentally preparing herself for the task ahead and going over what equipment she would need. There was no doubt in her mind that she could handle the bandits, she had been up against steeper odds before. If Rikke felt it necessary to make her dance to prove her worth, so be it. The sooner this war got started properly, the sooner she could see it ended, and the more likely Ulfric would be in one piece when it was over.

~~0~~

The fort was situated on a ridge, overlooking the northern coast, an excellent strategic vantage point for both the land and shore sides of the rise. No wonder Rikke wanted it cleared out, but the fort's location wasn't going to be conducive to taking it back. Fat snowflakes hung in the air like huge, white insects as Gallica crept along the tree line, counting on the weather and nearby cover to keep her presence hidden. She only counted a few sentries on the walls, half-heartedly strolling the parapets and no doubt counting the minutes until they could go back inside and sit next to a warm fire with their mates. She needed to draw the sentries out, but not all at once. Keep them guessing, get them good and riled up and scared so they made mistakes.

This had always been the part of her job that she disliked most. The men inside the fort were career criminals and would kill her without a thought if they could, and that made it a little easier, but she had never really picked up the zeal for killing that other fighters seemed to. Still, it needed to be done, and better that it be done quickly.

She set up behind an outcrop of rocks within range of the fort and hunkered down, finding the angle from which she would be the least visible while still getting a good shot at the walls. The bow she had had fashioned for herself was dragonbone, its string made of the supple and strong wing tendons of one of the many dragons she had killed. It was light, but had a pull on it that could punch easily through all but the most well-made armor. Settling into place, she waited until one of the sentries dawdled too long, and exhaled as she drew the arrow back, sighting along the deadly shaft.

The bandit dropped with hardly a sound. A few seconds later, one of his fellows ran up, checking the dead man and then peering out over the parapet. Her next arrow punched cleanly through the ocular of his helm, taking him through the eye and snapping his neck backwards with an audible crunch before he toppled off the wall like a ragdoll.

"Over here!" she heard someone yell from inside the compound, and two men ran out between the barricades. She dropped down out of sight quickly, laying her bow down and drawing her sword, waiting.

"I swear it came from over here." A rough voice said from somewhere in front of her. She tilted her head and leaned so that she could glance quickly over the top of the rock without showing too much of her face. The men were moving in her direction, checking behind trees, kicking bushes. Her heart racing, she grasped the grip of her shield and waited.

"Let's check those rocks." One of the men suggested, and she heard their footsteps drawing closer. When the moment was right, when they were nearly on her, she sprang up with a roar, bashing her shield into the face of the nearest bandit. His companion struck out at her, but she whirled in one smooth movement, parrying the shot and using the return momentum to drive the sword straight into his unprotected throat. Jerking her blade free, she pivoted in time to catch a blow from the other's greatsword on her shield.

"Never should have come here!" the man growled, but instead of backing away, she threw her weight behind her shield, slamming it against his chest so that he couldn't draw back to swing at her again with his heavy blade. He tried to sidestep, rolling around the blockade, but she rolled with him, and caught him with his side open, laying open the unprotected gap under his left arm. The man's eyes widened in surprise as blood began to gush down his armor, and she brought the sword down hard once, twice, finishing him off. Her armor splashed with the bright, arterial spray of her kills, she turned towards the barricaded arch of the fortress, breaking into a charge as she neared it.

The men on the other side had only a moment to register what they were up against before a roaring Shout split the frigid air and a column of flame erupted from the helm of the dragon-armored warrior bearing down on them, engulfing them all and permanently ending their confusion. The few that were left in the training yard, seeing the hellish silhouette emerge from the flame on the other side, cursed and ran for higher ground. It was not long before the fort fell silent again, the only sounds the wind whistling over the tower and the steady crunch of footsteps on new-fallen snow as Gallica made her way back towards the main road to Solitude, her task complete.

~~0~~

"Back so soon?" Rikke asked, emerging from the side room as Gallica stepped into to entry corridor of the keep. She was tired, the whole interlude had taken most of the day and darkness was gathering outside, but there was the report to be given and no reason to delay. She wanted it over with.

"The fort is cleared, ma'am. All of the bandits have been dealt with." She said, straightening to attention.

"Good work, soldier." Rikke said, sounding sincere, her earlier reticence apparently either forgotten or done with,"We'll send men out there to set up a garrison shortly. Glad to see you made it back in one piece. I'm impressed."

Gallica did not know how to respond to that, so she just waited. The part of her that was irritable from the day's killing wanted to respond sarcastically, but that would not do and she guessed that Rikke meant it as a complement in the weird, direct way of Nords. And the Legate did not seem to expect a reply.

"As far as I'm concerned, you've earned your place here. And I think I've got just the task for you. Before we go any further, let's go make your enlistment official."

She nodded and followed Rikke into the war-room. Tullius was there, hunched over the map, and he looked up as they entered, his eyes fixing immediately on Gallica. He seemed more energized than he had the day before, more robust, and his smile when he saw her seemed genuinely pleased, more than just his usual half-cynical expression.

"Sir. Fort Hraagstad has been recovered, thanks to the recruit here." Rikke explained, nodding to Gallica as if presenting a satisfactory piece of work. Gallica remained still.

"Good. I assume this means she meets with your approval."

"Yes, sir."

"Then, in light of the Legate's endorsement, the Legion is willing to reinstate your commission at the rank of Auxiliary." Tullius stated, turning to Gallica, "Consider the demotion comeuppance for your slow return and losing us Markarth at High Hrothgar, though I'm sure you won't have a problem working your way back up. Are you sure that this is what you want? Once you're back in, you're with us till you are released from service. We don't tolerate deserters, as you well know. Last chance to back out."

"I'm sure."

"Good." He grunted, "Take the oath, then. I'd wager you already know it by heart."

"Upon my honor I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II, and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire." Gallica intoned, "May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!"

She punctuated the last phrase by smacking her fist over her heart, the noise of gauntlet against chestplate making the walls ring, much as it had the first time she had done so a little more than seven years ago. Everything had changed since then, she had changed. The fire-bellied, idealistic girl she had been, eager to prove herself in light of her auspicious lineage, had been replaced by a more sober, cautious woman. The death of many of those original ideals were written as scars on her body and mind. She no longer believed in an Empire that could do no wrong. She no longer believed that the world could be summed up in the simplicity of duty to commanders, family, and Emperor. And yet, when she said the words, the memories of her father, her brother, the stories of her grandfather flooded back and they felt right. Three generations of her family had fought and died to preserve the Empire. She would not be the one to make those sacrifices in vain.

"Welcome back, Auxillary." Tullius said, warmly, reaching forward to clasp her forearm in congratulation. It was the first time she could remember him ever touching her, though she thought it was her imagination that he held the gesture for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"Find an empty rack down in the barracks. You'll need to go to the smith to get your gear tomorrow. Come find me when you're uniformed and ready to go." Rikke said. Gallica nodded and turned to go collect her belongings from the inn. As she made her way down through the fortifications to the road below, she wondered what Ulfric was doing tonight, whether he was worried for her, whether he knew where she was. Her heart ached to be with him, to be lying next to him in the dark, like a thousand other women that the war had separated from their men, but it would be a long time before that was possible, if it ever would be again. And so the only things she could do was hope and plan and keep moving forward.


	10. The Jagged Crown

_To preface, I don't think this is my best work, but I've always thought of the Jagged Crown quest as filler anyway. I considered skipping it entirely, but...eh. There are still elements that are useful to moving the plot forward. So, if this chapter is less than stellar, it's because I hate this quest and couldn't stand the idea of spending more than one chapter on it. I am, however, keenly looking forward to writing the next two chapters after this, especially certain awkward situations. :3 See you in Whiterun._

* * *

Being back in uniform was strange. Gallica tightened the last strap on the segmented lorica and twisted her torso, swinging her shoulders back and forth to test the fit against binds and weaknesses. Her own armor was better quality and more comfortable, but there was a point being made here and the smith had done good work fitting the stock armor to her dimensions quickly.

"Not bad," she said, finally, and the smith handed her the helm.

"Wear it in good health," he replied, adding a warning, "and take care of that gear. We only issue you one set. A little oil and grit will go a long way to making sure that armor stays between you and a Stormcloak axe."

"I will," she promised and thanked him before turning back towards the keep. The guards and the soldiers training in the courtyard nodded at her as she passed, and it reminded her of why she had loved serving in the Legion and also why she had left. Class and racial distinctions diminished in importance when you all wore the same uniform, ate the same food, and shed blood together under the same banner. The friends you made the Legion were the friends that would stick by you for life. And life had been simpler then. She had never worried much about where to go or what to do, because there had always been someone there to tell her what to do. All that was required of a soldier was to follow orders, keep your superiors happy and your subordinates in line, and not ask too many questions. But after news of her brother's death had reached her, Gallica had had nothing but questions.

"…I'm entrusting you with what resources I can spare." Tullius' voice filtered gruffly out of the war room and Gallica stopped, waiting in the foyer for the conversation to conclude. The general sounded annoyed, and she wondered what had raised his ire already this morning. "But I'm warning you, if this turns out to be a waste of time and men…"

"It won't be a waste," said Rikke, and Tullius grunted, glancing through to door, his eyes lighting on Gallica.

"Take the Auxiliary here. You can send her back with a report when you get there and find nothing but old bones and cobwebs."

"Stone-Fist is no fool. He's found the Crown. But we'll get to it first," Rikke assured him. A few seconds later, the Legate emerged from the war-room, looking tired. No doubt Rikke had her hands full trying to steer Tullius through matters of Nord culture that he was unwilling to understand. An underappreciated job, if Gallica had to guess about it.

"Welcome back to the Legion. Listen up." Rikke said, unceremoniously. "Galmar Stone-Fist…I'm guessing you're already acquainted with him…has located what he believes is the final resting place of the Jagged Crown. We're going to make sure he doesn't get his hands on it."

"The Jagged Crown?" Gallica prompted and Rikke sighed.

"I forget you weren't raised here and wouldn't have heard the stories. It's a legendary crown, a powerful relic of Skyrim's golden age. Made from the bones and teeth of ancient dragons. It's supposed to increase the power of the wearer. Whether that's true or not, the last thing we need is for Ulfric to get his hands on it. It would be a powerful symbol in his favor. Galmar thinks it's in Korvanjund, a ruin northeast of Whiterun, and he wouldn't be putting so many resources into recovering it if he wasn't sure it was there."

"Understood." Gallica replied, and Rikke nodded.

"I've assembled a unit from the Whiterun cohort and they should be waiting in the area already. We'll rendevouz with them outside of Korvanjund. I'll be right behind you, once I finish up here."

"By your orders." Gallica saluted and turned to go.

"Auxiliary," Rikke said, and she turned. The Legate look apprehensive, as if holding back something she wanted to say, "I'm trusting you on this one. Don't make me regret it."

Gallica nodded, understanding the unspoken message. _Don't turn out to be a spy, after all this._

"Of course."

~~0~~

The snow was thick in the air by the time she spotted the Legion soldiers, camped in a grove of trees just off of the mountain trail. As she dismounted and tied her horse, a familiar face stepped out from the group of soldiers.

"Hadvar," She said, genuinely pleased, as the man broke into a broad grin, reaching out to clasp her forearm. He looked a little more weathered since the last time she had seen him, but the kindness in his eyes was the same.

"Good to see you again, friend. I knew you'd do the right thing."

"Old habits die hard," She replied, looking past him towards the others, "The Legate shouldn't be far behind."

"Truth be told, I'm glad you're going to be down there with us. These old ruins…they don't want us here."

"I know what you mean." Gallica had explored too many dark, draugr-filled barrows already to doubt what the other soldier was getting at.

"Still, we're the Empire's soldiers and we'll do our duty, right?" he continued, with forced cheerfulness, as if trying to bolster his own spirits. They turned as Rikke's horse trotted up the slope, stamping and exhaling steam in the frigid air. The nearby soldiers crowded around as the Legate shook the snow off her shoulders and looked around.

"What's the situation?"

"Stormcloaks were already camped around the entrance when we got here," one man ventured. "Don't think they know we're here yet."

"Well, that's something at least," Rikke sighed, glancing at Gallica, "Damned rebels. At least we've got the element of surprise. You ready, Auxiliary?"

"On your command, ma'am."

"Good. Form up."

The soldiers perpared themselves and Gallica unstrapped the shield from her shoulders, fastening it around her forearm and testing the grip, stretching and loosening her joints after the long ride. The Imperial steel sang against its scabbard as she drew the wasp-waisted sword she had been issued, the memory of her previous years of service flooding back to her instantly. It was both nostalgic and deeply unsettling.

"Listen up, legionnaires," Rikke barked, all commander now that the battle loomed ahead. "Ulfric the Pretender wants that Crown. General Tullius is counting on us to keep that from happening. We all know men on the other side. But remember, they're the enemy now and they won't hesitate to kill you. So, let's show those rebels what real soldiers look like!"

And with that, they were all creeping among the rocks towards the ruins, slowly, the soft snow muffling the sound of their approach. The Stormcloak camp was quiet, perhaps half a dozen men all told left to guard the entrance and act as sentries. At Rikke's nod, the two archers nocked their bows.

"Now!" she cried, and the deadly thwang of the bowstrings was lost in the crash of armor and shields as the foot-soldiers roared over the rise and down into the ravine. Gallica was near the front, cleaving through one sentry as easily as kindling and kicking out with a hobnail boot at a second who was running up the stairs towards them, sending the man flailing backwards onto the ground, where another soldier easily dispatched him as they swept past. They fanned out into the space below, trapping two rebels in a dead end and the rest on the ledge above. An arrow grazed Gallica's helmet and she locked shields with Hadvar and the soldier on her left, advancing under the cover of the shield wall on the doomed soldiers on the ground while the rest stormed up the stairs leading to the barrow entrance to make short work of the archers. Within minutes, every Stormcloak lay dead, crimson stains spreading around them in the fresh snow.

"Good job," Rikke said, as the soldiers rolled the corpses of the archers off of the ledge onto the pile of their fellows below. "It won't get easier, though. A lot of these rebels are ex-Legion. They know how to fight and the advantage of surprise won't last. Let's move out. Quietly. It'll be all close-quarters fighting from here."

~~0~~

They swept through the outer temple with hardly any trouble dispatching the rearguard, and continued into the narrow tunnels of the catacombs until they came to a bottleneck.

"Find a way around it," Rikke ordered Gallica. "There's Stormcloaks waiting on the otherside I know it. We're not marching right into a deathtrap."

After exploring a few dozen of these barrows in the pursuit of a way to defeat Alduin, Gallica had begun to develop a sense for how the labyrinths were constructed. A little searching and backtracking, stirring up the ancient dust as she crept along walls and checked crevices, revealed a low, narrow set of tunnels that emerged onto a catwalk above the waiting Stormcloaks. A few well-placed arrows cleared the way for the other Imperials to charge in and clean up the rest.

As they wound their way further down into the ruins, Rikke stopped, making a silent cupped-ear gesture.

"I don't like this," a shaky voice echoed from somewhere ahead. "We should go back…"

"You deaf, boy?" another voice grumbled. "You didn't hear that ruckus behind us? Only way out now is down."

"But Torgill…and that _thing_…"

Rikke nodded and they spilled into the chamber ahead. The younger Stormcloak cursed, fumbling with his bow as he backed away in fear. Rikke crossed the space and was on him almost immediately, while Gallica rushed the older rebel as he raised his heavy axe at the Legate, body-slamming him sideways into the wall. She slammed his head into the stones and Hadvar appeared next to her, dispatching the man to Sovngarde before he could recover enough to shake her off.

"What in the nine holds is that?" exclaimed one of the soldiers. Gallica let the dead man slump to the ground, coughing from the dust they had stirred up, and looked at where the soldier was point. A withered draugr lay crumpled nearby, its skeletal grin exposed, mocking.

"Looks like it's been dead for hundreds of years. Can't be what killed that Stormcloak over there…right?" another legionnaire asked, motioning nervously to the body of a third Stormcloak propped against the wall nearby, sitting in a stick pool of gore, dead eyes still frozen open in surprise.

"We've faced worse than some dusty old bonewalkers." Rikke interjected, tersely, sounding more confident than she looked,"Come on. We're not leaving here till we get what we came for."

Anxiously, the soldiers fell in behind her, and Gallica glanced over at Hadvar. He looked pale, his hand involuntarily reaching for the amulet around his neck, for comfort or prayer. she cuffed him on the shoulder lightly, to bring him back to the present.

"That was a clean blow before. Likely saved my hide."

"You were the one who pinned him," Hadvar replied, modestly, but she saw him smile, pleased with the praise. At least it took his mind off of the draugr for a few moments.

Draugr corpses began to appear more frequently, and more than once they found fresh blood trails leading to dead Stormcloaks, poised in death as if frantically trying to drag themselves away from some horror. The one they found alive, huddling in an alcove with most of his entrails ripped out, Rikke dispatched quickly out of mercy. Finally, they found themselves in a long, wide hall with intricate carvings. Dark stains streaked the dusty floor, leading to a pile of dead rebels laying in front of one of the now all-to-familiar dragon doors.

"And this must be the Hall of Stories," said Rikke, sheathing her sword. "Look around. We need to find a way in."

"These doors all have a key." Gallica replied, looking around, "Did anyone find something that looked like a large claw on one of the dead Stormcloaks? Perhaps with some symbols on it?"

The soldiers stared at her blankly, and Rikke pointed at the bodies. "Check those over there. See what you can find."

Gallica moved carefully over to the corpses, kneeling down next to them and trying not to look too carefully at their faces. She had spent little enough time with the Stormcloak soldiers themselves, but Ralof and a few others had done good by her and she now worried that one day she would find one of them like this. If it could not be avoided, it was better just not to know. After a few seconds, she found what she was looking for.

"What's that?" Rikke said, walking over as Gallica stood, brandishing a large ebony claw.

"Our key."

"Careful," the Legate cautioned, as Gallica studied the pattern of shapes on the claw and began to move the huge stone tumblers into place. Once the combination was applied and the claw inserted, there was a deep boom and the door began to slide downward into the stonework. A waft of stale, fetid air exuded from the entrance, and Gallica heard several of the soldiers mutter supplications to the Eight behind her.

"Good work." Rikke murmured, before turning back to the others. "Let's move on. Keep your guard up."

Gallica stepped through the door, her heart beginning to pound as she sensed the small, familiar pull, the gravitational force of the Word that lay further inside drawing her towards it. She wondered what she would find there, even as she dreaded what would no doubt be guarding it.

~~0~~

One of the archers fell to the draugr in the antechamber, his head nearly cleaved from his body before any of them could react to the sudden assault. Rikke tried to steady the rattled soldiers, but Gallica could feel the fear radiating off of them.

"We have to be close by now. The crown should be here somewhere." The Legate said, coaxing the men through the last lengths of tunnels and into the high-vaulted crypt beyond, "All we need to do is find it. Spread out and keep your eyes open."

Gallica was barely listening. The Word was close, she could feel it in the thrum of the blood in her temples. She looked around, searching for wall on which she would find the inscription, her eyes lighting on the throne in the center of the room just as Rikke's voice snapped her back into the moment.

"Hadvar, get away from there!"

She looked up to see Hadvar staggering back in alarm from where he had approached the crown as a tall draugr wearing a thorny crown of dragon's teeth and dressed in what looked like the best armor of another age rose from its throne, it's eyes taking on cold, blue glow. With a hollow crash, the coffins lining the walls split and fell open one by one, their skeletal occupants emerging, weapons in hand, eyes like the dead light of frozen stars. Rikke had already started moving forward, but Gallica could tell even she was reluctant to engage the ancient king. The deathlord unsheathed his sword, galvanizing Gallica into action.

"**Fus ro da!"**

The two draugr attendants were flung backwards, but the crowned wight only staggering. Still, it was enough time for Gallica to race past the Legate, burying her sword deep into its chest, wrenching it free to strike again. Growls emanated in chorus from the draugr on either side of her and the stone walls of the crypt echoed with the shouts of the soldiers and the clash of metal against metal as the fray began in earnest. Her blade tore the desiccated flesh of her opponent, even as it recovered enough to bring its sword…blazing with the same blue fire in its eyes…down on her. She blocked, her knees jarring from the sheer force. The stench of death and decay swept over her as she felt another blow from a draugr to her side glance off of her pauldron, scraping down her back in a shower of sparks. She bashed at it with her shield, but the second on her other side Shouted, the force of the Word causing her to stumble long enough for another blow scored the outside of her thigh. Suddenly Rikke was there, back to back with her, hacking viciously at the two draugr attendants who were closing in on either side of them.

Her attention narrowed down to a pointpoint on her opponent as the fog of war took her. She moved with the Legate, whirling, slashing, redirecting blow after blow directed at them. The draugr's icy breath stung painfully on the bare skin of her face, the inhumanly strong blows rattling her shield until she thought her arm would surely break. At last, feeling her opponent weakening, Gallica emitted a roar, the force of her Thu'um rending the sword from the draugr king's grasp as she brought her own blade down with every ounce of force she could muster, cleaving cleanly through the dead king from neck to bare ribcage, splintering the old bones as the balefire went out of its eyes. Allowing the momentum of the blow to carry her around, she finished off the last of the draugr that Rikke had been keeping at bay and turned back to the battle, heaving with exertion, ready to spring on the next attacker.

The last of the walking corpses was cut down as she watched, but the price had been high. Two soldiers lay dead, several were trying to tend to another one on the ground, clutching his hand over a deep, spurting wound in his gut. Not one of the survivors looked uninjured.

"Get the damned crown," Rikke told Gallica, her face streaked with blood, before moving over to the others, checking wounds, dispensing potions, and generally pulling the unit back together. Grimacing from the dull pain that was beginning to radiate from her thigh, Gallica fumbled for a potion from her belt and tossed it back, feeling the ache turn to a light sting as the wound knit itself back together, before reaching down and carefully lifted the Jagged Crown from the ruined head of its former owner. It gleamed, dully, in the dim torchlight, and she could not escape the momentary thought that it was a rather unremarkable artifact really to have been worth all this bloodshed.

"Take that back to General Tullius, soldier," Rikke said, wearily, looking over her shoulder as she helped up the badly wounded man, now healing rapidly before their eyes as the health potion took effect. She clapped the dazed-looking man on the shoulder. "We'll stay here and look around, see if there's anything useful."

More likely, Rikke wanted a little extra time to make sure the men were healed up and seen to before they moved out. From the look on Hadvar's face, staring with wide eyes at the inert draugr around him, they would need the time to pull themselves together before they reported back to their fellows and drank themselves silly that evening.

"Ma'am." She saluted and turned to go, though she still had one thing to do. Walking towards the back of the crypt, she spotted the word wall, its inscription muted by years of decay. One word, however, began to glow brightly from its surface as she approached, becoming stronger and more luminescent with every step she took towards it until it almost blinded her.

_**Tiid**_, a voice spoke in her mind, _Time_. She would meditate upon it later, to find the use and fit it into the rest of her knowledge of the Thu'ums, but that would have to wait. No longer a free-range Dragonborn, orders were orders and too many people had died for this crown today to let it wait.

~~0~~

Castle Dour shone a dull red in the last of the anemic sunset when Gallica returned, tendrils of fog already beginning to creep up from the wharf below as the sun dipped below the wintery horizon. She found Tullius just sitting down to a hasty meal, still pouring over maps and field reports as he ate.

"At ease," he said, with a dismissive gesture, before she could stand to attention. "I assume you have a report for me."

Wordlessly, Gallica removed the crown from the unremarkable sack she had placed it in and held it out to the general. He paused, setting down the bread and cheese he had been munching on and wiping his hands as he took the object from her, turning it in the torchlight, studying its curves and angles with interest.

"So, this is the legendary Jagged Crown. I have to admit, I had my doubts that it even existed. Rikke was right, as usual," he mused, and looked up at her. "Did you run into any trouble retrieving it?"

"The Stormcloaks were there before us," Gallica explained. "Rikke sent me ahead with the crown while she stayed to see to the wounded and scout out the rest of the tomb."

"I see. Casualties?"

"Three dead. Most wounded, but nothing a few potions and a healer can't handle."

Tullius grunted, and set the crown down on the table.

"Unfortunate. But, good work." He waved to the chair across from him, "Sit. Eat. I have another assignment to talk to you about."

Hesitating for a moment, she complied, though she did not touch the food until he insisted. "Eat. There's more than enough and you'll have missed mess already. Didn't anyone ever tell you never to turn down a hot meal, a warm bed, or a…well, you get the idea."

"Isn't it against regulations to fraternize with a lowly Auxiliary?" she asked, smiling, reaching for a piece of bread and breaking a piece off of it.

"I'll make an exception for one that kills world-eating dragons." He glanced up at her, "Don't take it personally. We're in a delicate situation here. Examples have to be made."

"I can appreciate that."

"Good. Personally, I trust you. And this should put a lot of my legates' concerns to bed. If you were working for Ulfric, this would have been a perfect opportunity to show you true colors. But keep a close watch on where you go and who you associate with all the same. Speaking of which…I don't suppose you can tell me what Ulfric is planning."

"He didn't share his strategy with me. All I know is that he intends on attacking Whiterun soon, which I'm sure you already know."

"Mm." He leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment before continuing, "We're off duty here, so I won't blame you if you tell me it's none of my business, but there's something I want to know. What did Ulfric say to you that night up on High Hrothgar?"

Gallica was careful to keep her expression neutral, but she was surprised all the same. She had been certain no one had seen the interlude in the training yard…and yet Tullius had been waiting for her when she went back inside. No wonder he had been so agitated when she had met him the hallway.

"He tried to convince me to join him, once Alduin was dead."

"That's all?" She could tell he didn't believe her.

"You've met him, you know how dramatic he can be," she said, dismissively, though she could feel a spike of pain growing in her heart as she remembered the earnestness in his face that night, the memory of the kiss on her lips like a wound. "He's building his legend. He wanted the Dragonborn to be part of that."

"And that's not what you wanted."

"I'm just a soldier." She shrugged, "I'm not cut out for legends. And, whatever misgivings I've had, I do believe in the Empire. I don't want to see it disintegrate."

This answer seemed to satisfy him, and he nodded, as if considering something.

"So, Ulfric has no claim on you? There's nothing between you that might present a conflict of interest?"

"That, general, _is_ none of your business." Gallica said, smiling. "But, I've already picked my side in this war. I wouldn't have come, if I didn't believe this was the right choice."

"Fair enough. In light of that, I have a job for you," he replied, and slid a sealed parchment across the table towards her, "I need someone I can trust to deliver this to Jarl Balgruuf. With Ulfric setting his sights on Whiterun, maybe he can finally be convinced to accept the Legion's assistance. I understand you hold standing in Balgruuf's court and he holds you in high esteem. Do whatever you have to do to make sure he comes down on the right side."

She took the letter and nodded, standing. He sighed.

"This war is going to heat up quickly once Whiterun gets involved. I'm going to need you at your best."

"My best is all I have to offer."

He smiled, a private thought to himself, and waved her off. "Go get me Whiterun, and we'll see about getting you promoted. Can't encourage fraternization, can we?"


	11. Messenger

_Super long chapter, but hopefully totally worth it. Also, tis the season for Nanowrimo, but I will still try to keep up my 1-2 times weekly posting schedule. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, because I really enjoyed writing it._

* * *

As Gallica descended into the broad, windswept plains that surrounded Whiterun, the city itself rising as a craggy spire in the distance, she felt energized at the prospect of spending a night in her own house and her own bed again. Without her noticing, Whiterun had replaced Cyrodiil as the place that came to her mind when she thought of home. Her father's people had come from here, and those distant cousins were perhaps now the only living family she could claim. She had buried her brother's remains here. Though, nominally, the family estate outside of the Imperial City still belonged to her, she did not think it likely now that she would ever return there in life and that house, in her mind, would always belong to her grandfather and her parents. Breezehome was the only place that had ever been hers alone, and she felt safe there.

Little had changed, she saw, as she entered the wide gates. Despite the precarious political climate, the city seemed peaceful. Adrianne, busy working the forge at Warmaiden's, threw up a hand briefly in greeting as she passed and Gallica reciprocated the gesture. She was known here, but as a Thane, as a friend, not as the Dragonborn. That was one of the reasons why she felt comfortable here, and why it was important, for the sake of Balgruuf and everyone else in the city, that she succeed on this mission.

She stopped off briefly at the house to leave her gear and freshen up. Lydia nearly fell over herself with eagerness, and Gallica remembered that it was the first time she had seen or spoken with her housecarl since she had left to confront Alduin.

"I'm fine. Everything is fine," She assured the other woman.

"We heard you had returned, but I was worried when you didn't come back here. I wanted to go after you to make sure you were truly alright, but…"

"No, you did the right thing. I had business elsewhere."

Lydia eyed her Legion armor at that comment, but wisely chose to avoid the subject.

"Will you be staying long? Should I send to the market for…"

"No, it's fine, Lydia. I need to meet with the Jarl and then I have to be on my way again. Go about your business as usual."

The carl seemed disappointed, but Gallica clapped her on the shoulder fondly.

"You've done well here while I've been gone. It's a load off of my shoulders to know that my holdings here are in good hands."

Lydia preened happily at the praise and excused herself to see to the business of the house. Gallica watched her go and then looked around at the cozy interior of her home. If it came down to it, she had no doubt Lydia _would_ defend the place with her life. And it was her job to see that it never came down to that. No rest for the weary, though. Quickly, she washed the travel dirt and sweat from her body, rebraided her hair, ran an oilcloth over the outside of her armor to shine it, and began the climb to Dragonsreach. She would need to be at her best for what was to follow.

~~0~~

"Dragonborn," Balgruuf acknowledged her, smiling as Gallica approached the High Seat and bowed respectfully. "It has been some time since we've seen you in Whiterun. I've not had the chance to congratulate you on your victories. Welcome home, friend."

"It's good to be back home, Jarl Balgruuf," she replied, meaning it from the depth of her being. It had only been a few months ago that she had stood in this same place while he told her of the Dragonborn. Weeks ago, she had stood here and asked for his help and that had led to her promise to Ulfric on High Hrothgar. And here she was, yet again. All of her paths seemed to lead back to Whiterun.

"You must stay and eat with us. I'm anxious to hear about your battle with the World-Eater."

"I would be honored," she said, smiling briefly, before straightening. "Unfortunately, I have an errand that needs to be fulfilled. I carry a message for you from General Tullius."

"So…you've decided to take up arms with the Legion," Balgruuf said, his smile fading, though he sounded more tired than displeased. "I had heard…differently. No doubt the general still wants to garrison troops in my hold and thinks the request will be better received coming from you, hmm?"

"Whiterun has become my home, my Jarl. I would not come if I did not think it was in the city's best interest," Gallica replied, gently. Perhaps she had learned a thing or two from Ulfric, after all, for she could see the Jarl's pursed brow relax slightly, "Ulfric plans to attack Whiterun. I have heard this from him personally, and General Tullius' sources in the field confirm the preparations. The General would send you a legion to help defend Whiterun, if you will allow it."

"I see." Balgruuf said, sitting back in his chair, his expression growing grave, "Give the papers to my steward."

"Apologies, but I believe the General meant the letter for your eyes only."

"Proventus _is_ my eyes." Balgruuf growled, but he accepted the letter, squinting at the neat text as he opened it, his brow creasing again, "Hmm. It seems you may be correct. If Ulfric were to attack Whiterun…"

"Might I urge a cautious approach, my lord?" Proventus interjected, quickly, "We have waited this long…and Jarl Ulfric has made no move to attack Whiterun yet."

"Prey waits." Irileth huffed from where she stood, watchful as ever at Ulfric's left side.

"I have to agree with Irileth. It's time to act." Balgruuf mused. The Imperial steward stepped forward.

"Lord, you are surely not suggesting an attack on Windhelm…"

"I am not a fool. I mean to challenge Ulfric to confront me as a man. These threats and hiding behind walls do no credit to any of us. If he wants to challenge me in the old way, as he did Torygg, so be it."

"But Torygg…he just walked up to the boy and murdered him."

"That boy was High King of Skyrim," Irileth noted, and Balgruuf huffed.

"I am no High King. But I'm not a boy either. If Ulfric will meet me on the field, then all the better. But I would wager he would prefer to send his Stormcloaks to do it for him."

"He needs to prove the strength of his armies," agreed the housecarl.

"Then why not accept General Tullius' offer?" Proventus asked, wearily, "If you are bent on offending Jarl Ulfric, let it be the Legion that takes the brunt of the blow, rather than your own men."

"Proventus has a point. From Ulfric's position, you have already sided with the Empire. The Legion would be a valuable ally."

"It seems cowardly," Balgruuf muttered, shaking his head, and Gallica saw Irileth smile, wryly.

"Was it cowardly to accept the White-Gold Concordat?"

"I was given no choice in that matter." Balgruuf vented, visibly bristling, "They never asked the Jarls. We were given no chance to object to the terms of the treaty. We were told. And we had to like it!"

"The chests of gold didn't hurt…" Proventus ventured, which only angered the Jarl further.

"Damn it, this isn't about gold!"

"Lord, before we commit to anything, let us see if Jarl Ulfric is serious." The steward suggested, and Balgruuf stood, glowering.

"He is serious. But so am I." He turned to Gallica, reaching for the axe that leaned beside the High Seat. "Dragonborn, I want you to take a message to our friend in Windhelm. Deliver my ax to Ulfric Stormcloak."

She accepted the ax, bemused, looking from it to the Jarl. He must have seen the confusion in her face because he shook his head.

"Give the man my ax. If he returns it, we have business to settle. If he keeps it, then we are at peace."

She wanted to ask more questions, but she could already tell that Balgruuf was incensed and she had ceased to question the eccentricities of Nord culture months ago. She pressed her fist to her chest and bowed.

"As you wish, Jarl Balgruuf."

"If Ulfric returns the ax to you, get back here quickly. He's not bluffing, and I'll need every able bodied warrior to defend the city when his Stormcloaks arrive."

Gallica nodded and turned, taking her leave, feeling as if a ball of hot lead were growing in her stomach. Windhelm. Ulfric. The task could not be delegated and there was no one to delegate it to. She would not send Lydia or anyone else into that bear's den. It would have to be her. She would have to face Ulfric again in person. If he did not already know what had happened, she would have to see the look in his eyes when he understood what she had done and the mere idea of it cut her to her very core.

~~0~~

Fate, it seemed, had decided only to taunt Gallica with the prospect of spending a quiet night in her own bed after all. There was enough daylight to make it to Windhelm and she knew that, with everything coming to a head, Balgruuf's message could not wait any longer than necessary. Lydia tried to impose herself on the journey, for protection, to make sure that Gallica was not summarily arrested, but she was over-ruled.

"I need you here, especially if I fail and Ulfric marches on Whiterun," she told the disappointed housecarl, as she swung up onto her horse. "If all goes as planned, I will be back tomorrow. Pray that the Divines are feeling especially generous."

And she was off, skirting the trail around the great mountain and through the forests, pressing onward towards Windhelm. When the city came into view, finally, she hesitated, trying to reconcile the warring factions in her own heart. She would rather be anywhere else in the world than here at this moment. But she had a duty to perform. She longed to see Ulfric's face again, to know that he was alright. But she dreaded it more than anything else she could think of at the same time. Ultimately, however, there was nothing for it but to go on. She stabled her horse and approached the gate, pausing as the guards stepped into her path.

"State your business, Imperial." One asked her, his face hidden behind the mask of his helm.

"I come as a diplomatic envoy from the Jarl of Whiterun. I have a message for Jarl Ulfric." She said. The guard stared at her for a moment and then removed his helm, blinking at her as if he couldn't believe what he saw. He exchanged a glance with his fellows at the gate, and then put his helmet back on.

"Enter. But be quick about it."

Windhelm was exactly the same as she had left it, except perhaps quieter. The group of men who hung around the entrance to the Candlehearth in the evenings were nowhere to be seen. Hardly anyone was out on the streets in this cold. Darkness was falling quickly, and she did not relish walking unannounced into the Palace of the Kings as she once might have, and so Gallica rented a room at the inn. It was small, but at least the upstairs room she was given was warm and comfortable. She scrawled a quick note to Ulfric's steward, as the proper protocol would have it, paid a youth to deliver it, and waited.

Not an hour had passed before Elda, the aging innkeeper, knocked on her door with a message. She unfolded it carefully to see two words written there in Ulfric's neat-handed script. _Come home_. She thanked the innkeeper and closed the door, sitting down on the bed and pressing her face into her palms. It was not a smart move. When Ulfric learned of her joining the Legion against him, she did not want it to be in the Palace at night, where she could be easily arrested and few would be the wiser. He would respect the right of safe passage granted to diplomatic messengers, but in this case she suspect only if there were other people there to think ill of him if he did not. She was too large and important a player to him to let her just walk back out of the city. Everything in her tactical mind warned against it, even as her heart yearned to see him. She folded the letter, laid it on the bedside table, and lay back, closing her eyes. If she knew Ulfric, he would not wait.

The hour was late when she heard another knock at her door. A cloaked figure stood in the threshold, hood pulled down to cover most of his face, and she did not have to ask who it was. Stepping back, she allowed the figure into the room and, once the hood descended, and she was looking up into the achingly familiar face of Ulfric Stormcloak.

"When Galmar told me that you had been spotted at Korvanjund…" he began, his voice thick as if fighting back nausea. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

She remained silent, and he shook his head, looking away from her, as if the sight of her was so painful that he could barely speak.

"Why?" he asked, after a moment. "Why…_this?_"

The betrayal in his eyes was like a lance through her chest. She stepped forward. "Ulfric…"

He moved back, and she paused.

"_Why?_" he demanded again, anger beginning to well up in his tone.

"Because I can't let this happen," she replied, "Look around you. Skyrim is being torn apart at the seams. People are suffering."

"Skyrim is being torn apart because the Empire refuses to relinquish its hold, not because we want to be free!"

"Maybe Skyrim should be free to go its own way. But, Ulfric…killing the High King…attacking Jarls who don't agree with you…this is not the way to do it."

"I loved you." He said, seeming to be trying to pull himself back together. The past tense in his words felt like salt in an open wound, and she closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to remember to breath.

"I still love you."

"So, you joined an army against me? You were there at Helgen. You decided to join the butchers who would have executed you without a second thought? Talos give me strength!" He turned, pacing away from her, but the room was small, so he was forced to turn again, glaring at her, his hurt and rage evident.

"Mistakes are made. No army is immune to that, even yours. I rejoined the Legion because I know this conflict has to come to an end. And I believe this is the only way to end it without critically weakening both Skyrim and the Empire. The Empire is not the real threat here, Ulfric. The Thalmor are." she replied, trying to make him understand, "I love you. But, would you have me go against my principles and my better judgment just to please you? What kind of person would that make me? How could you respect me…or trust me in the field for that matter…if you knew I fought for something I didn't believe in?"

"I would have hoped that you believed in me." He replied, bitterly. There was a long silence before either of them spoke again.

"It isn't that simple. You know it isn't that simple."

He stepped towards her then and reached out, raking his fingers into her hair on either side of her face, his palms pressed to her cheeks in the old gesture of intimacy, looking down as her as if pleading with her to come to her senses. His proximity, after so many nights away from him, made her shiver.

"Gallica." He said. It was the only time she could ever remember him using her given name. "Come home. It's not too late. If this is about the elves, we'll find a way to fix it. I'll make sure Rolff is punished fairly. Tullius is using you as a weapon against me. You must know that."

"I don't know who is using who anymore." She confessed, so close to tears now that it took all of her energy to keep her voice from shaking. She splayed her fingers across his chest, feeling him real and physical there underneath her fingertips, and shook her head, "I don't want to lose you. But, heart, I don't see any way you can win this."

"_Together_ we can win this…"

"And then what?" she said, "Even if the Empire withdraws, the Thalmor are waiting. We _need_ the Empire and the Legion for what will come after."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, frustrated.

"Negotiate a peace with Tullius. He's already agreed to spare your life until there can be an inquest into the matter with Torygg. If you add 'traitor to the Empire' to it, his hands will be tied. You won't be High King, but at least you will be alive."

"I'm not afraid of dying."

"I'm afraid _for_ you," She emphasized. "Is being High King more important to you than your life, than me?"

He shook his head, as if in disbelief, and she could see him fighting to keep control.

"I won't let you do this," he said, finally, without answering the question. "I don't know how that Imperial bastard talked you into it, but I _will not_ let him turn you against me."

"Ulfric..."

"Enough," he spat back, and moved towards the door. "Deliver your message at the court tomorrow, Dragonborn. We will do this properly. I don't blame you. You weren't born here, you weren't there in the Great War when the Empire betrayed us. You don't understand. This is on Tullius' and Balgruuf's heads. When Whiterun falls, I will see to that you are brought here unharmed. And when you have come to your senses, we will undo the damage you've done together. As it should be."

And he was gone. Gallica stared at the empty doorway, her heart racing. So, that was how it was going to be. As she closed the door, she leaned her forehead against the rough wood and closed her eyes. What happened next was going to be hard. Many, many people were going to die because of this. But what else could she do? If Ulfric would not save himself, she would have to do it for him and she knew now that he would fight her tooth and nail every step of the way.

She undressed, setting her armor aside, and stretched out on the bed, blowing out the candle and staring into the darkness for a long time before she drifted into a restless haze of sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day and she needed every ounce of rest she could get.

~~0~~

The Palace of the Kings was more forbidding now than it had ever seemed previously. As Gallica entered into the great, high-vaulted hall, she saw that Ulfric had been waiting for her. The hall was usually loosely guarded, but there was a full complement of men on hand today, as well as the Jarls that had been deposed as part of the High Hrothgar Treaty. Galmar seemed oddly calm, as she approached, a nasty smile on his face as if he knew this was coming all along. No doubt, she thought, he was imagining a day soon when Ulfric wouldn't care what happened to her and he could repay her for the insult to his family, the revenge all the more sweet now that she stood before him in the garb of an Imperial soldier.

"Dragonborn," Ulric said, from the high seat, as she approached. He looked tired to her, but she knew well enough that to everyone else in the room, he was putting forth a formidable front. "Make it quick. I have a war to plan."

"I bring a message from Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun," she said, in crisp military tone. Ulfric smiled, glancing at his housecarl.

"I was wondering when he would come around," he said, and Gallica unstrapped the ax from her shoulder. There was a momentary intake of breath among the assembled, but she turned the blade away from Ulfric and held it out to him by the haft, harmlessly.

"What's this?" he asked, unconvincingly, as he took the ax from her and studied it, running his calloused fingers over the inscribed knotwork on the blade. It was more of a theatrical gesture than anything. "Ah…I see. You're brave to carry this message into my hall. But I would expect no less from you."

He stared at her for a long moment and then handed the ax back to her, raising his voice slightly so that there would be no ambiguity over what he had said

"It is a pity you have chosen the wrong side. Take this ax back to the man who sent it. And tell him he should prepare to entertain…visitors. I expect there will be a great deal of excitement around Whiterun in the days to come."

She accepted the weapon, without breaking eye contact with him. His expression was like stone, but she could see other emotions there when he looked at her, as if trapped behind his eyes. They both knew what was coming. He did not want her to die as much as she did not want the same for him, and she could see the fear in him that he might never see her again because she felt the same. But he could no more stop himself now than she could, and so the moment was lost.

"We will expect to see you in Whiterun, Jarl Ulfric," she heard herself say, though the words sounded hollow, as if they came from someone else a mile away.

"Sooner than you think," he replied, and her interview was over. She bowed and turned to go, slinging the axe over her shoulders, feeling his gaze burn into her back as she left the Palace for what she could not help feeling was probably the last time.

~~0~~

Gallica did not go to the gates. Ulfric had only let her leave because he wanted to make a political point to the people around him. She knew him too well by now to think that he would actually let her return to Whiterun if he could prevent it. Instead, she made a detour through the Grey Quarter, waiting for the guards to pass before slipping down to the docks. It was not long before she spotted a familiar face among the Argonians.

"Shahvee," She said, moving close, and the Argonian woman stopped, cocking her head, and then bobbing her head slightly in the way her people normally expressed pleasure.

"I greet you, honored friend."

"I need a favor. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

The Argonian glanced around and then turned, motioning Gallica to follow. In the privacy of the their communal bunkhouse, Gallica let herself relax slightly. A fair few of the Argonians in Windhelm were suspicious of Nords, and rightly so, but Shahvee had helped her more than once and she had done a favor in return by helping the woman recover her holy amulet of Zenithar. If anyone could help her, it would be the former thief.

"It's a long story, but I need to get out of the city without being seen," she said, simply, and Shahvee nodded, her jet-black eyes twinkling in the lamp-light. "Can you help me?"

"For the kind Nord, Shahvee can do this. Wait here."

Anxiously, pacing the length of the cramped bunkhouse, Gallica waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the Argonian returned and beckoned to her and led her down the dock to a light skiff on which another Argonian, a dark green male with white under-scales, waited.

"Sees-in-the-Dark must deliver new blades to Mixwater Mill up river. Perhaps Sees-in-the-Dark will deliver other cargo as well."

Gallica looked to the male, who nodded, wordlessly, and she felt relief spread over her. From her belt pouch, he removed a ruby ring that she had picked up from a bandit's cave weeks ago and had not yet managed to sell. She pressed it into the woman's hand, knowing it would be more than the Argonian would earn on the docks in a month.

"Thank you, friend. I will not forget this."

The Argonian woman smiled in the curious way of her species and Gallica boarded the skiff. Sees-in-the-Dark pointed her towards a place where she could sit among the already loaded crates, obscured from all but the most careful observers. Within moments, the dockworker had poled the skiff out into the icy river, and they were on their way.

~~0~~

It was midafternoon before she reached Whiterun, cutting across country to avoid assault on the road after she left the Argonian at the mill. As she approached the city, she saw that it was already swarming with activity. Barricades were being constructed, the fortifications were being manned. Balgruuf was no fool. He knew Ulfric as well or even better than she did, and he had sent for the Legion already.

She found him in the planning room of Dragonsreach, situated between the Great Hall and the porch where she had captured Odhaviing what seemed like an eternity ago now, with his steward and Irileth, and a covey of Imperial officers. Exhausted, she approached, with a perfunctory bow, and held the ax back out to Balgruuf.

"I knew that would be his response," the Jarl said, shaking his head. "I sent word to General Tullius after you left, and he has been kind enough to lend us some troops and Legate Cipius here."

Gallaca glanced at the stoic-looking Legate who had been poised over the maps, who nodded at her in return, and back to Balgruuf.

"Let Ulfric try to make it past the combined forces of the Legion and Whiterun," he said, chuckling. "Thank you, friend. I'll turn you back over to the Legion. I believe Legate Cipius requires your attention."

She bowed, and turned crossing the distance between the Jarl and the Legate and saluting.

"At ease," The officer said. "I hear good things about you, Auxiliary. Make your report."

"Ulfric rejected Whiterun's offer of peace. He will be mobilizing his troops soon," she replied, and the Legate sniffed, disdainfully.

"Hardly surprising. But we're more than a match for anything the Stormcloaks can throw at us," Cipius replied. "There's an army of them massing to the north, maybe two thousand men. By all accounts, they'll be on our doorstep tomorrow, if not sooner. Go rest and eat while you can, Auxiliary. Report back in at dawn, we'll talk defense then. I want you in the forward line and at your best tomorrow when those dogs get here."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and there was a package brought from Solitude for you as well. I sent it with your housecarl for safekeeping."

She nodded, saluting as she turned on her heal, threading her way through the room and back down from the great hall into the city streets. Whiterun was lit up like a beacon, archers manning every position along the walls, soldiers on every street corner, the townsfolk carrying provisions home to secure their house against the impending invasion. Quite a few of these men and women, she knew, would not be coming back home to their families tomorrow if the Stormcloaks attacked, and the thought pained her, as it always did. As she passed by the foot soldiers, she tried not to think of how young most of them looked, or to see her brother's face in theirs.

"Thane," Lydia said, bounding down the stairs as she heard Gallica enter. "I'm glad to see you returned safely."

"The Divines smiled on me. Seems their favor is capricious these days."

"The Stormcloaks," Lydia said, obviously, and Gallica nodded.

"I'm going to sleep for a few hours and head back to Dragonsreach to help plan the defense. You should get some sleep yourself. I want you on the wall tops tomorrow helping with the defense."

"I won't be in the battle with you?" the housecarl sounded disappointed.

"You'll be in the battle, but as a supplement to the city guard. If the Legion fails in the forward guard, I want you in here with the second line holding the gates."

"Understood," Lydia replied, drawing herself upright, "I won't let you down."

"I know," Gallica said, smiling grimly, and headed upstairs. Lying on her bed were two bulky objects covered in sacking. Frowning, she undid the rope that bound the first one and reached inside. As her hand touched the smoothed, pitted surface of the first object she felt, she knew instantly what Tullius had sent her. As she withdrew the fearsome dragonbone helm, a piece of parchment slid out with it. She recognized the handwriting as she opened it.

_Thought you would want these. I think it's about time to remind these Stormcloaks why the Legion's standard is a dragon, don't you agree? ~T_

She set the note aside and pulled the rest of her armor out of the sacking, laying it out on the chair and table nearby. The note struck opposing chords with her, especially in light of her conversation with Ulfric the night before…but Tullius was right. She could do more good as the Dragonborn now than she could as a simple legionnaire.

Exhausted, she unstrapped her armor, laid it aside, and slept without undressing. She needed to be ready at a moment's notice, and there were few enough hours between now and dawn to worry about it. Ulfric would not waste time. He had already been planning for this for weeks. No doubt all his troops needed was the order.

She did not dream of Ulfric and Whiterun, but of another city miles to the south and another siege, though it had happened before she was born. She stood on a rise overlooking a roiling battlefield, the walls of the Imperial City burning in the distance. The man standing next to her was speaking to her, but she could not hear him over the din of battle. At first she thought it was Tullius, with his generals' armor and salt-and-pepper hair and aquiline features, but as she drew closer, trying to understand what he was saying, she recognized him. She had never seen him in life, but his eyes were her mother's eyes and she could see a mix of her brother's features and her own mapped out there in his face.

"The gates are the key in a siege," said General Caius Gallicus. "Make the gates work for you. Don't be trapped by them, make them a trap for your enemies."

Before Gallica could respond, though, a low distant sound, so loud that she felt the reverberations of the base notes in her blood, echoed over the field and she woke in a cold sweat. The horns were sounding outside, and she could hear the clatter of hobnail boots on cobblestones. Jumping up, she called for Lydia. With the housecarl's help, she donned her dragon armor and hurried outside, pelting through the streets in the early morning cold and darkness towards Dragonsreach, dodging guardsmen and soldiers who were rushing to their posts. War had come to Whiterun. It was only a matter of time now.


	12. The Battle of Whiterun

The war-room of Dragonsreach was rife with activity as Gallica entered, a dozen different voices talking at once. Balgruuf and Cipius were bent over the maps, placing figurines to represent the opposing forces, while minor officers crowded around, watching, or standing in serious huddles, discussing strategy.

"There you are." Cipius said, brusquely, motioning Gallica over without ceremony, "I was about to send a runner for you."

"Sir. What is the situation?" she asked, pushing through until she stood next to him at the table. Troop markers were scattered in a wide arc around the northern fields around Whiterun, cutting off the north and eastern roads. Silently, she thanked the Divines that she had decided to cut over the ridge the day before and approach Whiterun from the southeast. If she had followed the road from Windhelm, she would have run straight into the Stormcloak vanguard.

"They crossed over from The Pale under cover of darkness. They've split their force into two groups. The smaller here in the north, the large force moving into position in the east."

"Seige weapons in the north, then?" Gallica asked, and the Legate grunted his assent.

"Bastards have been planning this for a while. No way they could have moved those catapults down from Dawnstar this quickly. If we'd had a regular garrison here, we could have routed them out before this, but as it is we're going to have to do the best we can with what we have and make sure the fireteams inside are prepared."

She snuck a glance at Balgruuf, whose expression hardened. No doubt this was hard medicine for him to swallow, and she sympathized. She would have rather stayed out of it herself, but when empires and legends collide, it becomes impossible not to be swept up in the destruction.

"The city guard are already readying fireteams to deal with any destruction inside the walls," the Jarl said, "We can handle what happens in here. I'm more worried about that eastern front and the gates."

"Sir." A young soldier pressed through the crowd in the room, wide-eyed, his face red from exertion. He started to speak but doubled over, panting heavily.

"Take a minute to breathe, soldier," the Legate murmured, dismissively.

"But…sir…"

"The outer fortifications are strong. There has never been a successful assault on them. If we can hold them at the gates…" Balgruuf suggested.

"Catapults." Cipius reminded him, and the Jarl scowled. "The scouts report that they've set up braziers. They don't want to take down the walls, they want to burn us out. That means they'll have their strongest force at the gates."

"My men are fearless." The Jarl replied, bristling, trying to save face. "It's the Imperial milk-drinkers I'm worried about."

"I can order my milk-drinkers to move out and let your fearless guardsmen defend the city on their own," Cipius replied, cooly, "If you prefer."

"No, of course not," Balgruuf back-pedaled, frustrated. "There is a lot riding on this, Cipius. Do not let me down."

"I've already dispatched men to help make sure the civilians are moved into cover, and added supplementary troops to your fireteams. Your city is as safe as it can be under the circumstances, Jarl Balgruuf."

"You legionnaires are efficient, I'll give you that," the Jarl growled, generously.

"Sir!" The younger soldier seemed to have recovered his breath, and both the Jarl and the Legate whirled on him angrily.

"What?" the Legate asked, giving the man a look that Gallica knew from experience would have made any fresh recruit give anything to sink down into the floorboards right then and there.

"Sir, they're on the move. They'll be at the gates at any moment!"

"Damn it, boy, why didn't you say something?"

"Sir, I tried…"

"Move out! To your positions!" the Legate roared without waiting for the messenger to finish, as the war room became a clamor of men and women hurrying towards the available exits. He turned to Gallica, "You. Report to Legate Rikke at the front. I want you out there front and center, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!" she acknowledged quickly, immediately turning and hurrying along with the rest of the exodus.

"Oblivion take every last one of them," she heard Balgruuf mutter, bitterly, as she passed.

~~0~~

A murky pre-dawn mist cloaked the city, a bloody sunrise just starting to cast a glow over the eastern hills. From the doorstep of Dragonsreach, Gallica could see what looked like a field of stars shining through the fog to the northern plain of the hold. The torches of a hundreds of Stormcloaks poised to descend upon the city and tear it to pieces, if they could. In the distance she could hear the frantic heartbeat of war drums in the darkness, and the shrill call of the ram's horns sounding the alarm from the city walls. As she watched, a flaming mass arched across the sky like a meteor, landing somewhere in the Wind district and exploding in a rain of fire and splintered wood. Figures hurried through the dim-light and smoke below. _The gates_, a voice reminded her in the back of her mind, galvanizing her into action.

The world around her was rushing feet and the sound of explosions and terrified faces intermixed with flashes of horrific light as she pressed her way down through the Wind district and onto the main road. Soldiers rushed along with her, civilians fought their way back through them towards safer ground. There was another flash of light overhead and a ground-shaking boom from elsewhere in the city, accompanied by the cacophony of splintering wood and screams of pain and panic.

She hurried through the flood of soldiers, out of the gates, weaving through the sharp turns of the fortifications until she stood at the outer gate, behind the wooden barricades erected against the attackers, staring out into the open fields and the fog shrouded hills beyond. No Stormcloaks were in evidence yet, but she could feel them out there, coming closer and closer. As the legionnaires packed in around her, jostling restlessly, the smell of fear-sweat and blood rising from them like a musk, Gallica looked up to see Rikke on the parapet over the gate, her armor shining in the light from the torches. The sounds of explosions echoed behind them, and a flaming missile exploded yards from the gate, sending burning debris spraying down the path. After a long pause, she saw Rikke raise her sword, a signal to someone on the walls, and a low rumble erupted behind them accompanied by another boom. The gates had been sealed, the drawbridge retracting behind them. The forward legion was on its own now, either for death or glory.

Minutes passed, an eternity, as Gallica listened to the muttered prayers, the curses, the final exultations of the men around her. And then, they heard it, a deep, rhythmic pounding and rumble, at counterpoint from the distant war drums, rising from somewhere out in the greying mist

"Thunder?" a recruit asked somewhere behind her.

"No." said the older, heavily armored triarius next to him, the thick metal plates and leather of his gear creaking in the cold as he tightened his grip on sword and shield, "Not thunder."

And out of the fog, the Stormcloaks emerged, the shieldwall darkening the fields beyond the road as they moved towards the city. The guttural chant of their voices rose like a wave of menace above the sharp echoing staccato of their swords slapping against the plane of their wooden shields. A momentary spike of fear shot through Gallica, but behind that the certainty that they would win, because now there was no other option. In some primitive, vestigial part of her, she felt the spirits of her father and her brother in Sovngarde, watching, and knew she was not alone.

"Akatosh, Stendarr, Kynareth, preserve us," She heard the legionnaire at her right murmur, and further back, a whispered, "Talos preserve us also…"

The Stormcloak horde had stopped at the base of the road that lead up the barricades, and a silence, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the catapults, descended on the field.

"This is it, men!" Rikke called out from the rampart. "This is an important day for the Empire and for the Legion, and all of Skyrim! This is the day we send a message to Ulfric Stormcloak and the rebels who support him!"

She descended the stairs. Her eyes found Gallica and she nodded briefly before turning back to look out over the rest of the assembled army.

"But what we do today, we do for Skyrim and her people! By cutting out this disease, we make this country whole again. Are you with me?"

A roar went up from the soldiers, Gallica's shout disappearing into the morass of other voices joined to hers.

"On me, then. For the Legion! For the Empire!"

And with that Rikke turned and plunged forward through the barricade towards the waiting shieldwall, Gallica and the rest of the forward line spilling out of the gates in her wake, the warcry deafening.

The noise of armies crashing into each other as a red dawn broke the horizon over Whiterun was like the crack of doom. Shield upon shield, blade upon blade, the press and crush of armored bodies colliding, the sound of thousands of voices echoing across the craggy mountains. Her blood raging through her veins, Gallica fought with every ounce of her being, giving no thought to what had come before or what would come after. Her Shout broke through the Stormcloak shieldwall and sent more than one of the rebels running, their courage failing in the terrible face of a _dov_ in human form. Every blow that rained down on her shield and body, she returned three fold. But no matter how fiercely they fought, the legionnaires were outnumbered four to one, and soon she heard the order shouted out above the fray.

"Fall back to the barricades!"

Locking her shield with the armored hulks of the triarii on either side of her, she backed towards the gates, providing cover for the rest as they retreated. The Stormcloaks surged up the path after them, cutting down the stragglers that had had to fight their way around the stables. As Gallica threw her weight against her shield, bracing the barricades and providing cover for the light infantry that stabbed at the attackers as best they could through the shieldwall, she found herself next to Rikke, holding the line just as any other soldier would.

"These barricades aren't going to hold forever." she shouted at the Legate above the din.

"We have to make them last." Rikke replied, drawing upright briefly to dispatch an axeman who was bearing down on her, "If that drawbridge falls, they'll have us pinned down in the city."

_Make the gates a trap for your enemies, don't be trapped by them,_ Gallica thought, as she slammed her shield into the face of several advancing Stormcloaks, wrenching her sword back as she slashed through their weak chainmail, spilling one's entrails into the dirt as the infantryman next to her drove a spear through the second one

"Let them in."

"What?" Rikke shouted, as if she thought she had heard Gallica wrong.

"Get the archers on high ground, put the triarii on the stairs to guard them. They can't get through that drawbridge and moat unless they can get to the mechanism and they'll have to go through the triarii and the archers to get there. They'll be packed in here, and we can cut them down like cattle in a slaughter pen as they come."

For a split second, she thought the Legate was going yell at her for suggesting such a stupid thing, but then she saw realization at what Gallica was suggesting dawn in the older soldier's face. Rikke fell back quickly and another triarius moved forward into her position to hold the line. A few moments later, she heard the order passed forward.

"Fall back! Fall back to the stairs!"

As the legionnaires retreated from the barricades, Gallica heard the splintering of wood and saw the wave of grey-blue tunics and maille spill into the breach, roaring victory. She backed her way to the stairwell as the Stormcloaks flooded into the narrow gap between the outer gate and the draw bridge.

"Now!" she heard Rikke call out from somewhere above her once a sufficient number of rebels had entered the walls. The first deadly volley cut through the rebel front line, felling them like wheat. The archers from the city walls seemed to catch on to what was happening immediately and a second rain of death descended upon the confused Stormcloak army seconds later. Between her Thu'um, echoing above the din of the battle as Gallica scorched the attackers with dragonfire, and the ferocious defense her comrades were putting up around her at the base of the stairs and along the lower part of the wall, the rebels could not fight their way up to lower the drawbridge and what little organization they had seemed to disintegrate into the living Oblivion that was being unleashed upon them. Dozens were being felled by the second from the archers and the soldiers who moved down from the walls to cut off their only escape, driving them deeper into the trap. It was wholesale slaughter, and the moat and road soon ran red with blood as the soldiers stumbled and slipped desperately among the broken bodies of their comrades and enemies that were piling up in the narrow space, trying to determine how what had seemed like a successful assault had suddenly gone against them.

"Retreat!" The order finally sounded out between the walls, quickly drowned out by a reciprocating roar of victory from the legionnaires as the rebels tried to break away. Like cornered animals, they fought their way back through the outer gates and ran as fast as they could away from the carnage, the Imperial soldiers hard on their heels howling like all of the daedra in Oblivion coming down with a vengeance on the heads of the Stormcloak army.

~~0~~

The squadrons of Stormcloaks that had been left to guard the catapults had fled by the time Gallica's unit arrived. They burned the siege weapons with the fire that the rebels had intended for Whiterun, the blaze so large and hot that Gallica suspected that the column of smoke could be seen all across the Nine Holds. As they returned to the city, the walls damaged but still standing, she was met by Rikke, supervising the recovery effort for the injured and seeing to it that the dying Stormcloaks who were beyond help met an end to their suffering at once.

"That was a stroke of genius, soldier," The Legate said. Her smile was genuine, but tense, faded. Not even a long-time veteran like Rikke could go unaffected by the blood and death that surrounded them, Gallica guessed. "You can be sure the General will hear about it in my report."

Gallica nodded, wordlessly, and Rikke looked around her and sighed, her expression hardening.

"Balgruuf is about to make his victory speech. You'll be wanted there, I'm sure. Come on."

She followed the Legate up through the walls across the drawbridge, to the wooden scaffolding where a combination of the city guard and the surviving legionnaires were gathered. The losses on the Legion side appeared to have been extraordinarily light, but Gallica could see, here and there, the all-too-familiar expressions, frozen and empty, on the faces of men and women who had lost friends in the battle. Through the archway beyond the drawbridge, she watched a single, stunned legionnaire, kneeling as still as a statue in the dirt and clutching a dead Stormcloak in his arms. A brother, a friend from the other side…Gallica did not know, but the thought of the awful realization that must be going through the man's head made her ache inside all the same. More so, because she feared that one day very soon she would be where he was now.

She barely listened to Balgruuf's speech, and the voice she added to the resounding war cry at the end lacked enthusiasm.

"Auxiliary," Rikke said, and Gallica turned. The Legate looked exhausted, but she seemed concerned. She searched Gallica's eyes for a moment, as if trying to determine if everything was alright, and then nodded, "You did well. I admit I had my doubts about your loyalty, considering, but I can see they were unwarranted. Once Cipius gets Whiterun's defense under control, we'll head back to Solitude. Until then, you're with me. There's a lot to sort out between the Legion and Balgruuf, and between the Battle-Borns and the Grey-Manes, before we can leave the city in good hands. It'll ease the process if you're there."

"By your orders." She replied, and Rikke flashed a tight smile.

"We'll talk more later. I know you've got property and people in the city. Go tend to your business and then throw in where you can."

Dismissed, Gallica walked away from the legate and through the now open gates into the city, feeling numb. This was not her first battle and, thank the Nine, it would not be her last. A few days and the skin-crawling horror of battle would scrub off along with the blood and the filth. She had done everything she could to prevent this, and when that had failed she had done what she had to do. Now, like every other soldier leaving the field today, she would take care of what was hers, help bury the dead, and then drink herself into a stupor to forget in preparation for the next time. Which, she thought as she walked through the charred streets of Whiterun, would come far too soon for her liking.


	13. Politics and the Past

Bit by bit, order was restored to Whiterun. Parts of the Wind and Plains districts would need to be rebuilt, but the fire brigades had done their jobs well enough to prevent a massive blaze. Few civilians had lost their lives, but the Temple of Kynareth brimmed with the injured and there was hardly a family in the city that had not been touched by the ravages of battle.

The house was in one piece and, aside from some minor burns and abrasions, so was Lydia. Gallica, too, had been fortunate. The dark bruises that marked her body like a spotted horse would heal. The scars left after the healing potions had taken their effect would silver and fade. Already, the memory of the battle was starting to scab over in her mind, and she was secretly glad to be spared the task of burying the dead. The ravens would circle the city for days before all of the corpses were honored and burned.

Instead, Gallica became Rikke's shadow as they tried to navigate the tricky Whiterun political climate. Jarl Balgruuf only needed to maintain the illusion of control, and the Legates provided him that by graciously accepting his "invitation" to remain the in the city. The Battle-Born and Grey-Mane families would be more difficult. She stood by while Rikke met with each, soothing where it was needed and growling when it was necessary, assuring them that no retribution would be exacted or tolerated so long as both maintained good faith with the Empire and the Legion. Gallica's opinion was seldom required, but she was aware of being watched, the family elders judging whether she seemed to agree with her commander or not. Grudges ran deep, but no one wanted to be publically seen as being at odds with the Dragonborn.

"Politics," snorted Rikke, shaking her head one cold evening as they wound their way through the streets towards the main square. "These people natter like a bunch of old women at a spinning circle. Give me a sword and someone to put it through, not this backbiting nonsense."

"You're adept at it, though," Gallica observed, smiling at the sentiment. The level of formality between them had lessened somewhat over the last few days as they worked together, and Gallica found that she liked the Legate. Rikke was astute in her judgment, earnest in her principles, and wise enough to know when to keep them to herself; all traits that Gallica admired in others and tried to emulate. Though, she felt that her own judgment and wisdom were seriously in question these days.

"Too much practice," Rikke replied, dismissively. They reached the Gildergreen's plaza, standing serene and miraculously unaffected by the destruction in the middle of the city, and the Legate looked up to Dragonsreach wearily. "At least, at this rate, we'll be on our way back to Solitude soon. If Balgruuf's weasel of a steward corners me at dinner again tonight, I may have to hit him."

"Come eat with me, then." Gallica offered, "There's more than enough, and it's just myself and my housecarl."

Rikke looked at her as if to judge whether she was serious or not, and then shrugged her assent.

"Alright. Can't say I'm not eager to get away from the high and mighty folk for a while."

Gallica lead the way back to Breezehome and arrived to find Lydia already stoking up the fire for the evening meal.

"My home is yours," Gallica said, indicating the sitting area to Rikke as she moved past the housecarl towards the larder, "Make yourself comfortable."

The sudden glut of troops had put a strain on Whiterun's resources, but Lydia was a competent steward in Gallica's absence and there was more than enough preserved food on hand in the small cottage to last. Rikke, seeming uncomfortable with sitting while the other two women worked, pitched in and it was not long before a simple meal of bread, boiled cabbage, and fish was prepared. The Legate seemed to relax considerably over the warmth of a shared meal and hearth, and they traded anecdotes about their respective early days in the Legion over dinner.

"They're still doing that?" Rikke laughed, as Gallica finished a story about a recruit she had known who had been ordered to carry water for the barracks cistern all day as a punishment until told otherwise by his commander. The commander had purposefully waited until well into the night to return, when the recruit had fallen asleep from exhaustion at the side of the well, "I remember our commander pulling that stunt on Galmar Stone-fist once. But the joke was on the commander. Galmar was still at it when the sun came up. He always was too proud to let anyone have a laugh at his expense."

"You knew Galmar?"

"Aye. Ulfric, too, from when we were all young," Rikke replied, sipping her mead, her smile falling slightly as she remembered, "We fought in the same cohort during the Great War. Some of the best and worst memories I have come from that time."

"I've heard many people say the same," Gallica said, nodding. She debated about whether to continue the line of questioning. Over the years, she had met enough veterans of the War to know how the memories haunted them, but there were things she wanted to know. Hesitantly, she continued, "With Ulfric and Galmar. How did it come down to this? If they were loyal to the Legion once, what happened?"

"Well, you have to understand how it seemed at the time. When the Emperor called, the legions of Skyrim came. Entire armies lost their lives retaking the Imperial City, while Skyrim was left unguarded. When the dust cleared, we had won, but almost a whole generation of Nord warriors were dead and the worship of Talos, beloved here in Skyrim, was banned for our trouble. When we came home, at last, it was to a different place," Rikke said, and shook her head, "Galmar hates the Empire because he thinks they betrayed the memory of the brothers and friends he lost in the War. Ulfric was a prisoner of war for most of that last year. He was never the same after that. I don't blame either of them for how they feel, but this rebellion is foolishness. It's going to get them both killed and a lot of good people along with them."

"I know," Gallica agreed, her thoughts turning inward, to the last time she had spoken to Ulfric. _You weren't there when they betrayed us, you don't understand_. She could remember the tortured expression on his face, the utter hatred in his voice, and it made her shudder to think of what he saw in his mind when he thought back to the War. Rikke eyed her carefully for a moment and then poured herself more mead, refilling Gallica's cup at the same time.

"Your stint in Windhelm. That wasn't about ideology. Was it?"

"No," Gallica replied, drinking and tracing the lip of her cup self-consciously before adding, "Though Ulfric can be persuasive when he puts his mind to it."

"I remember," Rikke said, smiling, and then laughed at Gallica's frozen expression. "No, not like that. Ulfric was one of my closest friends, but he was a Jarl's son and just as insufferable then as he is now. And he knew my attentions were elsewhere; he wouldn't have undermined a friend."

"Galmar?" Gallica exclaimed, incredulously, as she connected the dots. Rikke grinned.

"He wasn't always a surly old bear. There was a time when he was actually quite easy to be around. The world was a simpler place through his eyes."

The wistfulness in Rikke's voice was apparent, and Gallica felt herself automatically look away. Whether she did so to spare the other woman's emotional privacy or to hide the echo she felt inside herself, she wasn't certain.

"I'm sorry."

"It's last year's snow. He went one way, I went another," Rikke replied, shrugging it off. "But if you want my advice, as someone who's been there: never let anyone use your feelings for them to talk you out of what you know is right. Men come and go. Honor is forever. Whatever happened with you and Ulfric, don't let him drag you down with him."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

Rikke nodded and stood, wincing from her own healing injuries. The fire was starting to burn to embers in the hearth with the lateness of the hour, and it cast ghostly shadows in the rafters of the house and on the women's faces.

"I should get back. There's a lot of ground to cover with Cipius before we'll be ready to leave. Take tomorrow to get your affairs in order, Auxiliary. I'd plan to bring anything you think you might have need of in the coming months. I have a feeling it's going to be a long campaign before either of us see home again."

~~0~~

A steady, nearly frozen rain pelted down from a dreary sky as the column of soldiers arrived back at Solitude, making the city a welcome sight for all. Though a cohort had been assembled to assure safe passage through the Reach, now held by the Stormcloaks, the bulk of Rikke's men had been left with Cipius to help secure Whiterun against opportunistic attacks and to await further orders. The Legates seemed to think that the Pale would their next target, and so it made the most strategic sense to leave the legion in place until orders were received. Dawnstar would be scrambling for reinforcements after the devastating losses at Whiterun and the less time wasted the better.

Once the formalities had been observed, Rikke dismissed the men and told Gallica to come with her to deliver the report. The deep chill of winter had set in inside the keep itself and Gallica could see that, in their absence, additional layers of tapestries had been rolled down over the walls and braziers lit to ward off the cold damp of the fortified castle. The fire had been stoked up in the war-room, and Tullius was leaning against the hearth, shuffling through the pages of some missive or other while a group of officers were musing over the map in the center of the room.

As he looked up, Gallica was curiously aware of the general's gaze moving past Rikke and fixing on her, relief flooding into his face, before quickly snapping back to the Legate. The depth of the expression startled her for an instant, but she shook it off. Of course he would be relieved to see them returned unharmed from Whiterun. Rikke was his second in command and Gallica was a valuable asset to the cause. She had been on the road too long today. Weariness and discomfort were tricking her mind into seeing things that weren't there.

Gallica tried to listen as Rikke delivered the report, but her focus kept drifting. She had heard the battle rehashed a dozen times since the victory by now, and it was not something she wanted to dwell on. It was one thing to study and scrutinize battles long past, and another entirely to remember one you had actually recently shed blood in. Her dreams were bloody enough already without ruminating on it during her waking hours. The sound of her own name, however, brought her back to attention.

"The losses would have been much steeper without Auxiliary Gallica's tactical assistance." Rikke said, nodding back at her. "A lot of our men owe their lives to her quick thinking."

"It certainly sounds that way," Tullius replied, gravely. He turned to Gallica, "In light of your outstanding service at Whiterun, I am promoting you to Quaestor. Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir."

"Well done, both of you," he continued, gruffly, "But let's not rest on our laurels. I expect Ulfric is already planning retaliation for this embarrassment. Legate, take a day for you and your men to recuperate, you've earned it. Then, join Tituleius' force at the Pale. Jarl Skald is overdue for a lesson in humility."

"By your orders," Rikke replied crisply.

"Quaestor, I'm retaining you in Solitude for a few extra days. Stow your equipment, clean up, and meet me back here."

"Yes, sir." Gallica replied, saluting. Turning on her heel, she strode out of the room and broke into a jog back towards the barracks. She had no idea why Tullius would hold her back from the rest of the legion, though she worried it had something to do with Ulfric, but she would find out soon enough and there was nothing she wanted more at that instant than to be out of the sodden armor and clothes she had been riding in for the last four hours. Once she was warm again, she would be able to think about it more clearly. And she trusted the general. She knew he would not keep her from the field if there was not a good reason for it.

~~0~~

"Walk with me," Tullius told her, rising immediately when Gallica returned. Glancing at the other officers who were still clustered around the map table, she guessed that whatever he was about to say was for her only. She fell in behind him as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor and walked up to a bedchamber at the end of the hall. While it was spotlessly clean and rather austere, a picture of military order, the room definitely belonged to a man and, Gallica realized somewhat awkwardly, most likely Tullius himself.

"There's a skirmish brewing in Riften. I didn't want to break up the planning session, and it's colder than Oblivion outside." Tullius offered, by way of explanation. There was a vaguely uncomfortable note in his voice, as well. It was improper, though not seriously so, for her to be in the private quarters of a superior officer and she could tell he was just as acutely aware of that fact as she was. "There are few things I wanted to talk to you about and, as they say, the walls here have ears."

"Yes, sir," she replied, cautiously, complying as he waved her to a seat at the small table in the corner of the room.

"At ease. This is off the official record." He said, and sat down across from her at the table. His unease seemed to abate as he settled in to the conversation, "Before we get to the main matter, tell me what I haven't already heard concerning Whiterun."

"There's not much else to report. The city was protected, the Stormcloaks were routed."

"Due in no small part to your actions, I gather."

"It was a gamble that paid off," she replied, shrugging.

"I've read Cipius' report. He's convinced that you're some sort of tactical savant now. From the sound of it, I'm sure even Gallicus himself would have been hard pressed to come up with that maneuver under pressure," he observed, smiling. Gallica flinched internally from habit at the mention of her grandfather, the hauntingly familiar face in her dream rising to the surface of her mind once more. She considered explaining the vision to Tullius. He had known Gallicus after all, he would know what the man had looked like and possibly whether the image was simply a dream born of battle-jitters or something else. At the same time, she could guess how crazy it would sound and decided not to risk sounding foolish. She could not help but feel a spreading warmth at the complement, though. Rarely had anyone ever compared her favorably to her grandfather, and she considered it high praise from Tullius. Before she could formulate a reply, he continued, "Keep that mindset. We're going to have need of that kind of thinking in the field soon. I was more curious, however, about your errand in Windhelm."

Ah. That would have been mentioned in the reports as well, Gallica realized uncomfortably. She shifted slightly, weighing her words before speaking.

"You told me to secure Balgruuf's cooperation. He asked me to deliver the message and it seemed integral to…."

"You followed the orders you were given, no one can fault you for that," he interrupted, sensibly. "I'm surprised, I suppose, that Ulfric let you leave without a fight."

"He wouldn't violate the rules of honor concerning messengers if anyone was watching, and I didn't give him the chance to catch me alone afterwards," she replied, and related the story of her escape from the city.

"Clever," Tullius observed, appreciatively. "I'll have to look into approaching the Argonians. Ulfric has made a mess of the racial situation in that city from what I hear. If we have allies right under his nose, so much the better."

Gallica nodded, silently. She wanted to remind him of the promise he had made, to take Ulfric alive if it was possible, but doubted that it would be prudent. Tullius did not seem like the type to order an assassination anyway, especially when he already had an excellent start on winning the war. If that option had been on the table, it would have been attempted by now and the most useful victory for the Empire would include a public shaming of the rebel leader. Even so, she did not want to talk about Ulfric right now, especially with Tullius. And so she deftly tried to change the subject.

"You mentioned there was another matter you wanted to talk about."

Tullius sighed, as if remembering something troublesome.

"Yes. Are you acquainted with Jarl Elisif at all?"

"Not very well, but I've visited the court before."

"And what was your impression?"

"She is...young," Gallica observed diplomatically, and Tullius' eyebrows arched humorously as if that was an understatement. "I'm sure she'll grow into her position."

"She'll have to," he growled, and shook his head, frowning. "The girl tries hard. She's not a fool, and we could have worse material to work with. But no one ever prepared her to do more than smile and look the part. She has no idea how to actually lead."

"Her steward and advisors appear competent, though. She seems inclined to listen to them, at least. Perhaps she'll learn over time."

"Mm. I doubt that will be enough to convince the other Jarls at their Moot that she's High Queen material. And we can't risk letting the title fall to someone less…sympathetic…to the Empire. Most likely, we'll need to shore up her claim to the throne and then see that she's married to someone with a firmer grasp of the situation soon after. Someone with unquestioning loyalty to the Emperor, of course."

"You could always apply for the job," Gallica replied, smiling, and the general emitted a bark of laughter.

"Hardly. I'd no more rule Skyrim than the Jarls would accept it. These barbarian politics…Jarls and Moots and such…are too disorganized and I've got enough intrigue to last a life-time with the damn Thalmor. Besides, like you, I'm a soldier. People like us belong in the field, we're not made to simper around at court. No doubt Elisif would be equally grateful to be spared the horror of that union, as well."

"I wouldn't call it a horror. I suppose I'm surprised, though, to hear that there's no Lady Tullius back home in the Imperial City, already. As my mother had it, every proper Imperial with respectable bloodlines is married off as soon as they reach a decent age for it."

"I've yet to reach that age, I suppose. Or maybe I've never been respectable enough." Tullius chuckled, smiling. "It's always been something I thought I would get around to one day, once the Legion was done with me. Three decades in service have a way of creeping up on you. At this point, I'd have to marry inside the ranks just to find a wife who could put up with my barracks manners."

Gallica laughed, genuinely, because she understood the sentiment. Most of the women she had come up through the ranks with had ended up married to other legionnaires for more or less the same reasons. They were not always the easiest matches, but no one understood a soldier like another soldier. She had always assumed she would do the same one day, but circumstances had never aligned.

"To the matter at hand, though," he continued. "There's been some flap down in Dragon Bridge about a haunted cave. The locals are appealing to Elisif for help investigating it and so far nothing has been done from what I can tell. No doubt her steward hopes it'll just blow over, but that makes Elisif look weak in the eyes of the people. At the same time, I'd rather not send someone from the Legion regulars to go sort it out. We're already accused of interfering too much in local business and Elisif's affairs, and that weakens her position as well. I was hoping to persuade you, being their Dragonborn, to go look into it while you're on down time here in the city. As a personal favor."

"Of course, if it will help. Given leave, I'll check with Falk Firebeard in the morning," Gallica replied, and Tullius nodded.

"Good. Officially, I'm placing you on leave for the next three days. I'm sure Rikke can spare you for that long. I expect it's probably nothing. Animals, maybe, or a few bandits using superstition to protect themselves. We just need to make sure the people see their future High Queen doing something about it. I'll owe you a drink when you get back."

He rose and went over to the dresser in the room, coming back with a sword in his hands.

"While you're here: a token in honor of your promotion." He held the sheathed weapon out to her, and she accepted it, pulling the blade carefully and noting with surprise the elegant fine workmanship on the pommel and crossguard. She was aware of him watching her closely as she tested the edge. "No doubt you have superior quality weapons of your own, but I like to give my officers something to commemorate the occasion. This blade in particular was given to me when I accepted my first commission. By Gallicus, in fact. It seemed fitting that you should have it."

She ran her fingers over the cold steel of the sword and looked up at him, a strange mix of unidentifiable emotions welling up inside of her.

"This has sentimental value for you, then, wouldn't you rather …."

"Things like this need to be passed on to retain their meaning," he replied, dismissively, and smiled. "Besides, I have no doubt the old man would approve."

"Thank you."

He nodded and moved over to the door, opening it for her. She stepped out and he followed her, walking with her back to the war-room.

"I should get back to the planning. Come back and fill me on the Dragon Bridge issue. I'll owe you that drink."

She watched him turn back to the men who were still hunched over the maps, moving army markers around like game pieces as they debated, realizing that the odd feeling that had been building in her was actually happiness. It was not the wild emotion she had felt when she had first joined Ulfric in Windhelm, but a more stable optimism, something she had not truly felt since before her brother died. As she made her way back to the barracks to join the others for mess, she reminded herself that the war was far from over and she still had Ulfric's pig-headedness to deal with, but maybe the situation was not as hopeless as it seemed. And it was nice to hear that someone, at least, believed in her personally, rather than just the Dragonborn.


	14. A Quiet Drink

Worse than draugr-filled ancient barrows, worse than forts full of bandits, Gallica hated caves. Human constructions had a certain amount of sense to their layout. Caves wound their way through the earth at completely nonsensical angles and slopes, narrowing down to tight fissures in the rock at the most inconvenient places, while also being cold, perpetually wet and full of mud, and almost always inhabited by the most unpleasant sorts of people and animals. Gallica hated caves, and Wolfskull Cave had been a perfect example of why. If she had a septim for every damned fool cultist trying to harness the power of something clearly far beyond their feeble capabilities she had met in Skyrim, she could buy the whole of Solitude.

Still, the threat had been neutralized; Queen Potema's shade, which the necromancers had been trying to summon and control, had been dispersed. From the dusty era of her childhood education, Gallica remembered that the woman had been a descendant of Tiber Septim and had instigated a civil war that very nearly succeeded during the Third Era, but very little else about her save that she was supposed to have been a royal terror and something of a witch when she was alive. Whatever she had been, she was dead and would fortunately now remain that way thanks to Gallica's interference.

Elisif and her steward had been abundantly grateful, and Gallica had not been allowed to leave without accepting the title of Thane of the Jarl's court as well as the obligatory housecarl, a tall blonde woman named Jordis who, like Lydia, carried herself as if she had just been given the most important job in the world. After some negotiation, she had agreed to purchase a house suitable to the title as well and now stood in the drawing room of an Imperial-style manor house in the respectable district, looking at the shrouded furniture and dusty crates around her and considering the strange chain of events that was her life.

"Thane," Jordis announced, very professionally, from the doorway. "General Tullius is at the door and requests to speak with you." Though the housecarl appeared to be the stoic type, Gallica could tell she was impressed. There were few people in Solitude who could expect to receive a personal visit from the military governor.

From the landing, she spotted Tullius standing in the foyer near the door. To her surprise, he was out of uniform, dressed in simple well-tailored civilian garb in wine-colored reds and browns. Even out of armor, he stood like a soldier. Perhaps it was the peculiar angle of the light striking his face or the shock of trying to imagine him outside of military context, but Gallica momentarily found herself observing that the general was not a bad looking man. Embarrassed, she banished the thought and prepared a suitable face to greet him.

"I see your excursion was eventful," Tullius commented when he noticed her descending the stairs. Gallica looked around the bare room, grateful to have somewhere else to turn her gaze.

"I admit, I wasn't prepared for all of this," she replied, and shrugged. "But, I needed somewhere to put the housecarl they foisted on me and if I'm going to be spending time in Solitude anyway…."

"That's one way to free up space in the barracks, I suppose," Tullius agreed and smiled. Gallica found herself smiling, too, despite the strangeness of the situation. Fortunately, he continued, "I hope my visit isn't an imposition. When I got your message, I decided to save you the trip up to the castle and come see for myself."

"No, not at all. As first guests go, I'm honored. Welcome to Proudspire Manor, such as it is."

"There are worse places to call home," he replied, and shifted, "I look forward to hearing the story. And I believe I promised to buy you a drink in exchange for the favor. Unless you're otherwise occupied, we may as well kill two birds with one stone. I can't remember the last time I had a break from the post myself."

"I completely understand the sentiment. I'll get my cloak."

Within moments, they were back out on the wintery street. Dusk was falling, but the air was clear and sharp with the ocean breeze that moaned through the natural stone arch on which Solitude's palace district was built and carried the lilting music from the bard's college next door through the street.

Tullius nodded to the guardsmen as they made their way past Castle Dour and the open market towards the Winking Skeever. It was the busiest of the city's inns, but there was no better place to go of an evening in Solitude and the quality of the mead had only increased now that Riften was back in loyalist hands. With the lanterns lit and the Imperial masonry of the buildings looming tall around them, and if not for the bitter cold, they might have been in Cyrodiil.

A few heads turned when they entered the inn, but fortunately they had come early enough that finding a private table was not difficult. Once situated, with cups of mead in front of them both, Gallica filled the general in on what she had found in the cave.

"I'll never understand mages. The ones that aren't blowing things up seem to be Oblivion-bent on necromancy and summoning up daedra and Divines know what else. A resurrected Potema…," he sighed when she was done, shaking his head.

"I don't suppose we'll ever know why. I found nothing that indicated a wider conspiracy or threat."

"Thank you for taking care of it. I pity the two-bit mercenary Firebeard would have sent down there," said Tullius wryly, as he sipped his mead. "Not that I'm pleased to have sent you into a dangerous situation, but I'd rather it was someone who knew what they were doing than some poor grunt."

She smiled at the praise and raised her glass, magnanimously.

"When General Tullius asks, who am I to refuse?"

"Ha! If only the rest of Skyrim shared that opinion." he replied, grinning, matching her toast before leaning back in his chair. "But no titles tonight. I'm out of uniform, I'm in a decent tavern, I've got good company, and no reason to ruin it all with formalities. In that spirit, another round is just about due, I think."

Gallica offered to get it, but was refused. When Tullius returned, he deposited the drinks on the table as well as a loose cloth pouch. As he shook out a handful of polished stones in two colors, Gallica smiled in recognition. Mills was a popular hearth game here in Skyrim. The tables all had the familiar pattern of straight and diagonal lines carved into the center of them. Each player had nine pieces to place on the board. The object was to eliminate your opponent's pieces by sliding your own along the joining lines to create rows of three. Though the matches were usually short, a game between skilled players was often a source of great entertainment on cold nights.

"You've played before, I take it?"

"My father taught me," Gallica replied, picking up one of the smooth, gray playing pieces.

"Aside from the mead, it's one of the few things I've learned to appreciate about Skyrim," Tullius grunted and racked the blue-black stones over to his side. "Beauty before age, as the rules go."

As making the first move conferred a very slight tactical advantage, it was customary to let the younger or less experienced player go first. Considering carefully, Gallica placed her first piece at the junction of two lines in the outer square of the playing grid. She was beginning to feel pleasantly warm and relaxed from the combination of the mead and the atmosphere of the inn, and the hassles and bruises and worries of the last few weeks began to drop away as her focus settled on the game.

"Your father was from Skyrim, was he?" Tullius asked, as they placed their pieces on the board, setting up traps and blocking each other in turn.

"No. My grandfather came down to Cyrodiil and stayed after he met my grandmother. My father was born in Bruma. He talked about visiting the homestead here once or twice, but I don't suppose my mother would have stood for it. Which is just as well, to be honest. Skyrim has had enough old dragons to deal with."

"If she was anything like Gallicus, you're probably right."

"What _was_ he like?" Gallica asked, eagerly, warming to the subject like a child asking for a bedtime story as she finished her move. "I've heard all about his battles, but not much else. Mother talked about him as if he were a second Tiber Septim."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. He had flaws like any man, such as a temper that could stop a bear in its tracks. He was a model of self-control for the most part, but I wouldn't have wanted to be the one to upset him when he let loose. Gallicus was probably one of the most intelligent men ever to go through the Legion. He had a talent for finding the smallest weaknesses and exploiting them. Sometimes, I think he knew what an enemy was going to do before they did themselves. The thing I remember most about him, though, was how he treated his men. It didn't matter whether he was dealing with a Legate or the least of the recruits, he liked people and he made time to personally train with his men and listen to their concerns. He could be a tough commander…you have to be sometimes to get the job done…but he never expected more from his troops than he was prepared to give himself, and they loved him for that. He was a man of great skill and nobility, but he never thought himself above the people around him." Tullius sipped his drink thoughtfully, as he considered the game pieces. "Traits that I'm sure he would be pleased to see passed down to you as well."

"I'm hardly worthy to follow in those footsteps," Gallica demurred stiffly, and the general smiled.

"I don't know, you seem to be off to a good start with the dragon business. Now, _my_ family, there's an auspicious line to have to live up to. Broke my father's heart when I decided to join the Legion rather than take up the family business of court intrigue and skullduggery."

Gallica listened, laughing, as Tullius entertained her with tales of the exploits and proclivities of his various dysfunctional noble relatives. She won the game of Mills, and he accepted defeat graciously. The inn had filled up nicely, creating a soothing susurrus of voices in the room that underlay the bard's lyre. The candles had burn down in their sconces over the last few hours to cast smoky shadows in the corners of the great room and they were beginning to take on hazy haloes to Gallica's eye, signaling to her that she was well on her way to being pleasantly drunk.

"Picking up from one of our previous conversations," Tullius began, leaning on one elbow on the table. Whatever sense of rank had prevented them from talking frankly before seemed to have vanished under the influence of the mead, "Indulge my curiosity a moment. How have you avoided marriage yourself? I can't imagine half your cohort wasn't fighting each other for privilege back home."

"I never found a man that made me want to settle down," Gallica shrugged, a gesture that seemed to take longer than usual. Perhaps she had drunk a little bit more than she had thought. An image of Ulfric swam through her mind, but she shook her head to dislodge it. She didn't want to think about him tonight; she could resume that heartache tomorrow. Defiant of the memory, she took another quaff of her drink. "And, I guess, I've just never really had the time."

"It pays to choose carefully," he agreed. "But there's never a good time for people like us. I've been saying 'when I get home from this campaign' for years now. If I've learned anything, it's that you have to take the opportunity when it comes and damn the timing. That's what I intend on doing anyway."

"So you have your eye on someone, then," Gallica replied, grinning conspiratorially. "What's she like?"

"Strong. Fierce even, which she'd have to be to put up with me, I suppose. Beautiful, but that goes without saying. Good family. A bit younger than me, but not improperly so. Legion, of course, so courting her may be tricky."

Gallica listened, trying to imagine who the general could be talking about. She hadn't seen many female legionnaires in Solitude, so the choices were few if the woman in question was a legionnaire. Suddenly, it dawned on her. Rikke. She fit the description perfectly and the two of them spent so much time together planning the war. It was obvious, and she smiled at the thought. It certainly made for a good romance.

"What do you think? Should I risk it?" he asked, jovially. Gallica didn't know how Rikke felt about him or whether the older woman had romantic interests of her own elsewhere, but, from watching them interact with each other, she could see possibility there. They already bickered like an old married couple.

"I think she'd be surprised, but it sounds like a perfect fit to me."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it," he said, sounding pleased.

He won the second game of Mills, by which time the evening had become something of a blur, and they finally agreed that it was time to go while they were both still capable of walking upright. They emerged back onto the cold street, laughing at some joke that Gallica couldn't even remember, and the stars gleamed too brightly down through horse-tail clouds like diamonds or spears of ice. The chill was bracing and roused her a little, though putting one step directly in front of the other required more attention than usual.

"I'll walk you home," he said as they passed by the ramp up to the fortress. The streets were empty and silent, except for the wind. She mumbled a protest about not wanting him to go out of his way, but he insisted. "It's good manners to walk a lady home, especially if she's drunk and disorderly."

"_You're_ drunk," she pointed out to him, "Who's going to walk _you_ home?"

"It's not that far. If the guards find me passed out in the road, they'll know where to take me."

It seemed strange to be going to the palace district and not the barracks, but it looked like Jordis had lit the fire and the wall sconces inside the manor while they were gone. A soft, yellow glow filtered out of the glasses, making the house seem more alive than it had been previously.

"We could dust off a bed for you, if you don't want to walk back," Gallica slurred, gesturing rather inaccurately at the house. "There's more rooms in there than I know what to do with. Must be a bed in one of them."

Tullius turned and looked at her then with an oddly searching expression. Maybe he wasn't so drunk after all, she mused briefly before her mead-sodden brain lost track of the thought. He stepped closer to her and laid his hands on her shoulders as if to steady her, though she was standing still. It startled her and set off a strange cascade of conflicting reactions that paralyzed her in her current state.

There was a long pause, where neither of them seemed to be able to look away. She felt rooted to the spot, as if her body were pulling her in two different directions. She had a sudden and awkward desire to kiss him. Or maybe it was that he wanted to kiss her? That couldn't be right. As she turned this over in her mind, the moment passed and he squeezed her shoulders before stepping back.

"Not tonight," he said, gently, as if in reference to a different question, one she couldn't remember asking. "Get some rest. I'll check in with you tomorrow about your marching orders."

"Hey," Gallica called after him as he turned to go. He paused. She felt that she needed to say something, but she had no idea what or why she felt it was necessary. Finally, after a moment's futile struggle to express herself, she said, "The woman you were talking about earlier. She'd be lucky to have someone like you."

He smiled faintly back at her and nodded before turning and starting back up the road towards Dour. Feeling foolish, she exhaled a long breath of steam into the night air and stumbled up the steps to the door, finding it unlocked. Mercifully, Jordis had expected her return, otherwise who knew how long she would have been out there in the cold fumbling for the key? She waved away the housecarl's attempts at assistance and made her way slowly up the stairs and into the master bedchamber. Cobwebs still hung in the corners of the room, but she had pulled the dustcovers off of the four-poster bed earlier in the day. So, unceremoniously, she collapsed onto the densely-stuffed mattress, smelling the faint odor of dust and the rosemary leaves that had been stuffed with the mattress to ward off fleas as her face pressed against the smooth linen. She should undress, or at least take her boots off, but that would entail moving and she was comfortable where she was. Wrapping her arms around one of the pillows, her last thought before sleep overtook her was that she had not slept in a bed this large since leaving Windhelm and that it felt lonely without someone else there next to her in the darkness.

~~0~~

When she awoke, it was to broad daylight streaming in through the window, a monstrous headache that felt like someone was beating on her skull with a blacksmith's hammer, and the unsettling feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar place and being unable to remember how she had gotten there. As she shuffled downstairs to find the privy or at least a cup of water and some hair-of-the-dog to lessen the pounding in her head, she found Jordis waiting and the events of the previous day came back to her.

"What time is it?" she asked the housecarl.

"Nearly mid-day, I think."

Gallica cursed. She had to report in to the Pale tomorrow and, even though she was still on leave, she had intended to get an early start today. Quickly completing her morning necessities and ablutions, she dressed herself and paused in the foyer to rifle through her pack.

"I'll be leaving this afternoon for the front." She told Jordis, and passed the woman a pouch of gold. "This should be enough to purchase furnishings for the house and stock the larder while I'm gone."

"Of course, my Thane. But…shouldn't I accompany you?" the housecarl asked, hopefully.

"Legion business, I'm afraid. I'm not sure when I'll be back."

"As you wish," the woman replied, holding back a sigh, so much like Lydia would have done that Gallica briefly wondered if the two were related. She nodded and hurried out into the street, pulling on her cloak as she walked. She needed supplies, and she needed to meet with Tullius to find out what to expect in the Pale and the location of the camp. It would have been better to get an early start today and catch up with the slower-moving legion, but that was out of the question. She would have to ride cross country as it was to make the Pale by nightfall. While she had ridden over much of the Hjaalmarch, she was not as familiar with Dawnstar's territory and, if the clouds on the horizon were any indicator, there would be snow tonight. Better to push through while the weather was clear than slog through a blizzard tomorrow.

As it happened, Tullius was not there when she arrived at the fortress. Legate Adventus, taking charge while the general and Rikke were away, informed her that some urgent business had come up, but that Gallica should report to Rikke in the Pale as planned. He showed her the location of the camp on the map.

"Be careful out there. The weather is turning, and that's bad country to be in during a storm," he warned her, before seeming to remember something. Rifling through the papers on the table, he came up with a sealed piece of parchment. "This is for you, as well. I was going to send it with a messenger, but since you're here. Good luck in the field, Quaestor. Kill a few of those traitors for me."

As she made her way back down into the main street of Solitude, Gallica broke the seal of the letter and opened it. It was a brief note from Tullius, explaining what Adventus had already told her and making his apologies.

"As for last evening, it was a pleasure," she read to herself, soundlessly. "Now that you have a house in Solitude, I hope to see more of you as the war effort permits. We'll talk more when you return from the Pale."

Most of the latter part of the night was foggy to her, but luckily it appeared that she had not completely embarrassed herself. As commanding officers go, she respected Tullius and wanted him to think well of her. Outside of that, she liked him. She understood him, and it was good to feel comfortable with someone without constantly trying to push through the inscrutable veil of differing cultures and world views in every conversation. If she had had that with Ulfric, instead of the exhausting, exhilarating mess that their relationship had been to date, then maybe everything would have turned out differently.

But that was not how things had gone, there was no use wishing for Ulfric to be different than how he was, and that they came from two different places and two different backgrounds was no one's fault. The fact was that she still loved him despite everything and, if she succeeded in getting him out of Skyrim before someone could send his head back to the Imperial City, they would either work around the barriers or they wouldn't. In the meantime, she might as well enjoy the burgeoning friendship with Tullius. Anything could happen between now and the end of the war.

* * *

_Tullius is a smooth operator. ;)_


	15. The Storm Breaks

All the world was whiteness, wind, and bitter cold. The storm had howled down into the swamp out of the north earlier than Gallica had anticipated, moving from light flakes to driving snowfall within an hour. In the end, it drove her back to the south until she found the road. The terrain was just too treacherous to cross with poor visibility and the knowledge that it would only get worse the further she went north. She would need to spend the night in Morthal and continue on when the weather abated. Following the road, however, was hardly an improvement. Deep drifts were forming, some reaching knee height, and she began to worry for the horse. It would be all too easy for it to break a leg under these conditions. Frost clung to the animal's shaggy coat and periodically she would have to lay her gloved hand over its nostrils to melt the ice that was collecting from its breath. The animal heaving as it struggled to breath. They would have to find a place to shelter soon, but the snow obscured all visible landmarks from which to judge her location. The best she could do was try to follow the road.

Finally, Gallica spotted a light in the distance, a beacon in the storm, and changed directions, pulling the horse after her towards the promise of relief. It was not Morthal, just a single large hall among the trees, but there were few people in Skyrim who would deny hospitality to a traveler in a blizzard. As she pulled the horse into the yard, she recognized the place as Nightgate Inn. She had traveled past it on her way to Morthal several times before, but she had never been as grateful to see it as she was now. With a murmured prayer of thanks to the gods, she found the small stable at the back and quartered the horse out of the wind before making her way into the inn.

The main room was nearly empty. The innkeeper leaned listlessly behind the bar, and there was only one patron, a blonde girl dressed in Stormcloak armor, lurking close to the wall. Perhaps a scout that had been caught by the weather and sought shelter here. The girl hardly looked old enough to carry a sword and she edged away nervously under Gallica's gaze, as if planning to bolt at any second.

"By Ysmir's beard," the innkeeper exclaimed, standing as Gallica went immediately to the long hearth in the center of the room and let the heat wash over her. Her cold limbs ached as the feeling returning to her fingertips, the warmth spreading over her cold-chapped face like a balm. "I wouldn't have thought anyone would be out in this weather!"

"I was caught on the road," she explained, though she was shivering so hard she could hardly keep her voice steady. "Do you have a room I can rent from you for the night?"

"You're welcome to it. Wouldn't send man nor beast back outside in that," he replied, gesturing to one of the doors that lead off from the main room. A thought seemed to strike him and a concerned expression crossed his face. He glanced at the Stormcloak, who was trying to seem as small and inconspicuous as possible. Gallica shook her head.

"I'm not here for that," she said, and turned to the girl. "I'll hold truce until the weather clears if you will."

Hesitantly, the Stormcloak nodded. She looked frightened and Gallica could sympathize. Maybe she had been talked into joining by friends or family, maybe she had been swayed by the same misguided sense of patriotism that Ulfric's rhetoric had stirred up in so many others, or maybe the little bit of coin and the occasional hot meal was better than whatever life she had had before, but the girl clearly knew she was in over her head now. _Take the lesson_, Gallica thought at her, remembering the dead faces of other Stormcloaks strewn in the dirt at Whiterun. _Go home while you still can._

Weary, she ate a modest supper, braved the snow again long enough to ensure that the horse was watered and fed, and retired to her room. It was early yet, but she wanted nothing more than to sleep for an age and she guessed that the Stormcloak would rest easier if she was out of sight. As she stripped off her gear and pulled the fur coverlet around her in the small bed, she could hear the wind shrieking across the roof like a vengeful spirit trying to tear its way in through the thatch and the distant cracking and groaning of the trees as they bowed under their increasing burdens of ice and snow. She had a feeling that she would not be leaving the inn tomorrow either. In the end, the plans of empires, Stormcloaks, and Jarls were secondary. Nature ruled in Skyrim, and right now it was choosing to exercise its sovereignty.

When she woke in the morning, she found that her intuition was correct. The storm had abated into a slow steady snowfall, but the accumulation on the ground was thigh-deep and higher in some places. The innkeeper had had to tunnel his way out to see to his animals earlier, and said that even the trees were coated with thick shells of ice. The Stormcloak, however, was nowhere in evidence.

"Told her it was a damn foolish thing to do," the innkeeper rumbled, with a shrug. "Suppose she thought you were going to put a sword through her eventually after all and decided to make off while she could. Still, she's through here a few times a month, so she knows the area."

Gallica shook her head, frowning at the senselessness of it all, but there was nothing to be done. The girl had made her decision and hopefully she wouldn't pay for it with her life. Perhaps she would find her way to one of the nearby farms and take shelter there.

The day passed monotonously, as did the next. The storm had ceased, but the snow did not seem to be in a hurry to melt and it was still too dangerous to risk traveling. Gallica read, wrote in her journal, and helped the innkeeper split logs to help keep hearth stoked. No doubt any military action was paralyzed by the storm, but she still felt restless at being unable to report in to her post. At intervals, she wondered if the Stormcloak had managed to find her way to shelter after all. If not, the girl was almost certainly frozen to death by now. It was a depressing thought.

Late in the afternoon on the third day, another traveler arrived. He was broad-shouldered, scruffy and wind-chapped, and Gallica supposed he must be a mercenary of some type from his battered leather cuirass and the long-hafted axe that was strapped over his shoulder. The innkeeper greeted him heartily, as if he were a long-time acquaintance.

"Storm caught me out on a hunting trip," the sellsword said, bolting down a bowl of stew like a starving man and draining a horn full of ale. "Spent the last couple of days holed up in a cave. Was just able to dig myself out and get my bearings this morning."

"Did you happen to see a girl on your way here? Stormcloak, probably alone?" Gallica asked him.

"Well, I did at that," the sellsword replied slowly, as if remembering. "Looked like she was headed back towards Whiterun way."

Gallica nodded, relieved. If the girl was still traveling, then she would probably come out alright, despite the risk. It might not be the best thing tactically…the girl knew where Gallica was and that might tip the Stormcloaks off to the coming invasion of the Pale…but, personally, Gallica was not sorry to hear that the scout was alive.

With little else to do, she let the sellsword draw her into a friendly game of bones. He seemed the jocular type, inclined to do most of the talking himself, and she listened while he told her all about his exploits and travels. He seemed to have no idea who she was, and she felt no need to enlighten him. As darkness crept over the blanched landscape outside, she helped the innkeeper put together a dinner for them all and, in a festive mood, he pulled down a bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy from the top shelf of the bar.

"Looks like the roads might clear enough to be passable by tomorrow," the innkeeper said as he poured out ramikens of the golden liquid behind the bar. "Seems like reason enough to celebrate to me."

"Drink this fine requires a toast," the sellsword replied, grinning, as he accepted a cup. Gallica took hers, the alcoholic scent of the liquor strong. The bottle must have been well-aged, but then she supposed there was not much call for expensive Imperial imports here. The sellsword raised his cup grandly as he declared, "May the gods grant us victory and bring us all safely home again."

The innkeeper grunted his assent and Gallica raised her glass wordlessly. The brandy burned fiercely as it went down, almost evaporating in her mouth. Potent, indeed. There was a slight, odd aftertaste, but that was no unusual for brandy that had been sitting up for a long time. Still, she guessed that one cup of this stuff was enough for an evening.

"Where are you bound when the snow clears?" the mercenary asked her, conversationally, and she shrugged.

"East." The man seemed harmless enough, but she didn't want to broadcast her plans just in case.

"You look like a soldier…this a trip for business or pleasure?"

"I'm visiting family," she replied, finishing the last of what was in her cub and setting it aside. The innkeeper arched an eyebrow at her, doubtfully. It was not expressly a lie. Aside from the cousins in Whiterun, the Legion was the only family she had left. The sellsword seemed oblivious to the lie.

"Oh, must be nice. Haven't seen mine in ages, which I'm sure is a great source of relief for them," the man said and grinned. The innkeeper offered to refill her ramiken and she put her hand over the rim, demurring. The single cup had affected her more than she had thought it would. In fact, as she listened to the men talk, she found it harder to concentrate on what was being said. Blinking, she tried to force herself back into the present.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a lightweight," the mercenary laughed at her, and she stood, bracing herself on the table.

"I'm going to turn in. If the roads are clear enough, I need to get an early start," she said, her words sounding like echoes to her own ears. Her legs wobbled unsteadily under her and the world spun, seeming to tilt dangerously to the left. Too late, she realized what had happened.

"Bastards," Gallica gasped, reaching for the dagger at her belt as she collapsed onto her knees and the darkness that had begun to collect at the corners of her vision overwhelmed her.

~~0~~

When consciousness returned, it was to a dull, throbbing ache in Gallica's head and the sounds of voices around her. There was something cottony and foul-tasting clogging her mouth, but she couldn't spit it out, and when she tried to raise her hands, bound tightly together at the wrist, to remove it, someone grabbed her arms.

"Don't let her get that gag out, she'll Shout us all to Oblivion."

As more bodies moved in around her, she twisted in a panic like an angry cat, kicking out and feeling her boot connect hard with another body. A fist smashed into her jaw and she tasted blood as it soaked into the rag that was jammed into her mouth and held in place by a tight gag. Snarling with rage, she threw her weight into her shoulder, body-slamming one of her attackers and using her fists and arms like a club. There were too many of them, though, and they wrestled her writhing to the ground. Pinpricks of fire spread across her scalp as someone grasped her hair and twisted it painfully, and she roared a torrent of unintelligible profanity through the gag.

"Easy! She's not to be harmed," someone protested nearby. It was an oddly familiar voice, but one she could not place. She snorted for breath, as the faces of a half a dozen Stormcloaks came into focus around her. One of them was bleeding profusely from a busted nose, several sported bright red abrasions from where her blows had struck home. All of them regarded her with an expression of mixed anger, fear, and wariness. The sellsword was there, though now he was dressed in Stormcloak armor, and she glared at him hatefully. One face in particular, though, caught her attention and made her freeze momentarily in surprise when she realized who the familiar voice had belonged to.

Ralof seemed almost embarrassed to be there as he pushed his way through the men to kneel down in front of her where they had her pinned down to the floorboards of the inn, someone's knee pushing painfully into her back.

"Easy, kinswoman," he soothed at her, though she could tell by the guilty-as-sin look in his eyes that he didn't expect her to be soothed. She stared directly into his eyes and saw him flinch slightly at the expression of rage boiling just at the surface of her own. "You know me. No one's going to hurt you."

She knew that words would be pointless with the gag in place, so she emitted a guttural growl of anger instead.

"We're taking you back to Windhelm. Jarl Ulfric wants you brought home safe. No one wants to make this harder than it already is. Just relax."

_Windhelm_. The thought of what was waiting for her there galvanized her into more desperate struggles. Either Ulfric thought she could be reasoned with or he had given up on her and wanted to finish the job himself. Either way, if they succeeded in getting her to Windhelm, a prison cell was the best she could hope for.

"Put her down now or we'll never get her out of here!" one of the men called. An arm tried to snake around her neck and she tucked her chin to stop it until one of them punched her in the ribs and she bellowed in pain, losing her concentration. The arm constricted around her throat and almost immediately a whiteness began to cloud her eyes. She struggled frantically to free herself, but, in the end, the darkness reclaimed her

The next time she awoke, the world jolted and rolled around her. The sound of horses and wind was in her ears and for a brief, terrifying instant she thought she was back on the cart going down to Helgen towards execution. As she opened her eyes and the memory of what had happened came to her, she realized she was not far off of the truth.

The Stormcloaks had slung her into the saddle on her horse, tying her hands to her pommel and her feet into the stirrups so that she would not fall off. She was still gagged and her body ached as if she had been beaten with sticks. The coppery taste of stale blood, her own, was still in her mouth. Ralof, mounted on his own shaggy steed, was leading her horse and he looked back as she stirred.

"You're awake. I was beginning to get worried," he said. She looked around, trying to discern where they were. Dark, skeletal trees and knee-deep snow surrounded them on either side of the road. They could be anywhere in Skyrim. Ralof stopped, letting her horse move up beside his. He looked her over as if to ascertain whether she was alright, though he avoiding looking into her eyes directly. "I'm sorry about this. It should take us another day to get back to Windhelm at this pace. I have to keep you in binds until then."

As they rode on, Gallica pulled at the ropes and tried to stretch her sore muscles as she looked around at the other Stormcloaks, sizing them up. Eight of them, including Ralof. None of them looked like timid recruits. Even if she got free, it would take some doing to get away. Silently, she assessed her situation, looking for any way she might cut through her bonds. If they had not searched through her saddle bags, there should be a set of daggers there, but she had no way of reaching them. There was nothing sharp on the saddle that she could rub the ropes against. For the moment, she was stuck.

Her mouth was so dry. If she could just drink something, it might calm the pounding in her temples as well. Suddenly, a thought struck her. They wouldn't deprive her of water if she was supposed to be brought back in good condition. Ralof was not that cruel of a man. To give her water, they would have to remove the gag. A plan began to form, and she knew she would only get one opportunity to get it right.

It was after midday when Ralof decided to stop. For the last few miles, Gallica had done her best to look beaten and ill, slumping forward in the saddle. Concerned, he dismounted and came back, laying a hand on her thigh.

"Hey, kinswoman, you okay?" he ask. As theatrically as she could, Gallica heaved through her nostrils, turning what she hoped was a glassy stare on him. She made a strangled sound in her throat as if she were choking. Nervously, he glanced at the others and then fumbled with the ropes that bound her feet into the stirrups. "Let's get you down and let you rest for a moment."

She slipped limply out of the saddle like a sack of potatoes as they helped her down and fell right to her knees, leaning forward onto her forearms as she made struggled coughing sounds. The men crowded around her, lifting her up, and she slumped in their grasp.

"There's a clear spot over there," she heard Ralof direct them. Everything was going to plan so far. She closed her eyes and concentrated on seeming as pathetic and injured as possible. They sat her down under an overhang of stone, sheltered from the thick snow, leaning her back against the rock wall. Ralof knelt down beside her, peering into her face with a worried look.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and she groaned. He bit his lip, weighing the options, and then reached for her gag. "I'm going to remove this thing. Just be easy, okay?"

She stayed still while he loosened and unwound the fabric wrapped around her head and pulled the lump of cloth out of her mouth. She hacked and coughing, gasping for breath pitifully.

"Water," she croaked, and Ralof nodded. He stood and jogged back to the horses and she watched surreptitiously through the hair that hung in sweaty, blood-caked strands across her brow as he pulled something from his horse and started back. He knelt back down, uncorked the leather canteen and raised it to her lips. She drank greedily, because she really was thirsty, and sat back gasping.

"That's better, isn't it?" he said, smiling hopefully. Gallica raised her wrists to wipe her mouth on the back of her hands, and took a deep breath. In one smooth, lightning fast movement, she pushed herself off from the rock, wrapped her bound wrists around Ralof's neck and drug him back down with her. Taken by surprised, he yelped and tried to push her away, put she wrenched violently to the side, breaking his balance and wrapped her powerful legs around him, getting better leverage as she shifted her grip on his neck until the crook of her elbow was under his chin.

The Stormcloaks were running towards her and she waited until they were almost upon her before letting out the deep breath in a vigorous Thu'um.

"_**Faas ru maar!**_"

Almost as one, her attackers stopped in their tracks, their eyes growing wide in sudden terror. Then, they backpedaled, some slipping in the dense snow and climbing over each other to get away, fleeing as if she were some horror rearing up from the depths of Oblivion to devour them all. Ralof sobbed for breath, trying to twist out of the choke hold, but she only tightened it.

"Stop," she commanded, so fiercely that Ralof immediately went limp. She loosened her hold only slightly. "Cut me loose. And by the Eight, if you try anything, I will make sure the only thing left of you will be some charred bones and a memory."

Gallica watched carefully as Ralof slowly drew the dagger at his belt, holding it where she could see it. She released the choke hold, leaning forward so that her arms were out in front of him, just far enough that he could reach her bonds as he quickly slashed through the ropes. The instant her hands were free, she grabbed him by the nape of the neck and shoved him forward, slamming him to the ground as she knelt over him.

"Where is my sword, my armor?"

"On my horse," Ralof grunted, and then continued, "No one was going to hurt you, I swear it."

"Really? You think this was just Ulfric's way of inviting me to tea?"

"He just wants to talk to you. All we were supposed to do was bring-"

Gallica slammed him down again and his sentence was cut off by a pained yell. Furiously, she leaned down until her lips were nearly next to his ear.

"You saved my life once. So, I'm giving you yours now. If I ever see you under these circumstances again, I willkill you. Go back. Tell Ulfric to come himself next time if he wants to talk to me."

With that, she stood and stalked off towards the horses. She did not even look back to see Ralof scramble to his feet as she pulled the bundle of her armor and belongings off of his horse and tied it to her own saddle. Ralof might not be the most intelligent man she had met, but he wasn't a complete fool. Gallica knew he would not risk attacking her after what had just happened. She swung up onto her horse, reined it around to the west, and rode off as quickly as she dared with the snow still dense on the ground, head high, and did not look back.

~~0~~

By the time she finally found the Imperial camp, neatly hidden in the cleft of the mountains that straddled the border between the Hjaalmarch and the Pale, Gallica reckoned that she was close to a week overdue. She had made a brief stop in Morthal to clean herself up and report the incident to Legate Taurinus, so that he would be aware of the situation if the Stormcloaks were foolish enough to try and track her. Evidently, Ralof had wisely decided to let it go, because she saw no sign of them as she picked her way through the mountains towards the northern coast. When, at last, she arrived and stepped into the scant warmth of the commander's tent to see Rikke and another Legate, a tall Nord, leaning over a map, she prepared herself for a lecture.

"What happened to you?" Rikke asked, seriously, looking Gallica up and down. Dark bruises still blossomed on her face and arms from the struggle. "You look like you lost a wrestling match with a bear."

"In a manner of speaking, ma'am," Gallica replied, tacking on the honorific for the benefit of the strange officer. "I was detained by the storm and I ran into a Stormcloak patrol along the way."

From the look in Rikke's eye, she knew that the older woman suspected there was more to the story, but would wisely wait to get the details later.

"Well, you're here now. And just in time. We have a plan for the assault on Dawnstar, but it's going to take some preparation to pull off. Before we make any definite battle plans, we need to know what we're marching into. Information out of Dawnstar has been spotty ever since Whiterun. There's a pass-off point for Stormcloak couriers at Nightgate Inn. If you can catch one before he hands off his pouch, we could intercept the orders that are being sent in to Dawnstar and see what they're up to, maybe sow a little bit of mischief of our own. Can I count on you, soldier?"

Gallica smiled, humorlessly, thinking about how all things seemed to come full circle. She wouldn't mind returning to Nightgate Inn. There was a certain innkeeper that needed the fear of the gods put into him.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Rest tonight, get your strength back together. You can head out in the morning. Dismissed."

Gallica saluted and left. She passed the huddle of legionnaires sitting around the fire and found the quartermaster, who directed her to an empty spot in one of the tents. Two men slept there already, the sound of their snores like a sawmill, but she was not inclined to be picky after the last few days as long as she could sleep.

As she sat her equipment aside and rolled out her sleeping pallet, she stopped and fingered the ring Ulfric had given her, still on her left hand. Galmar would have simply had her killed, so she had no doubt Ulfric had been the one to give the order. The question was: why? He had told her that he would stop her, that he wouldn't let Tullius turn her against him. Did he think he was saving her from herself somehow or did he just want her out of the way for strategic reasons? She could never tell how much of his own propaganda Ulfric actually believed.

In the darkness of the tent, Gallica lay down, clenching her fist around the token as she blinked back the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes. There was a part of her that almost wished she had just let them take her on to Windhelm. At least then, she would know why. Since Whiterun, she had almost stopped thinking about Ulfric except in the future tense, what was going to happen, what she would have to do to save his life. Now, the wrenching awfulness of the entire situation welled up once more out of the dark place it had been living in the bottom of her mind.

There was no way Gallica could think about what had happened after High Hrothgar now without seeing it as a mistake, even if it was one she could not make herself regret. If she had just gone home that night before she had faced Alduin, rather than let loneliness and need chase her into Ulfric's arms, then all of her decisions since would have been easier. After that, because letting herself love him filled a void inside of her that had gone empty for far too long, she had deluded herself into thinking she could help him, that loving her would temper the sharp edges of his hatred and rage. She believed him when he said he loved her rather than just the Dragonborn, but what did that mean when he had also shown himself more than willing to twist her feelings for him and turn them into a weapon he could use to bend her to his will?

The abduction attempt was the last straw. She could not stop herself from loving him, but she could stop pretending that the image of Ulfric she had created in her mind because she loved him was what he was truly like. If she could, she would save his life, because he had once told her he trusted her with it and because she felt she owed him that. What happened beyond that, only time would tell.

~~0~~

The sun had reappeared, dazzling over the melting ice, as Gallica lay perched on a ledge that overlooked the northern road. She had not returned to the Nightgate Inn, choosing instead to find a place nearby from where she could see the courier coming from any direction. The innkeeper would get his reckoning one day, but now was not the time for petty vengeance. She waited, calmly, until she saw a slim figure trotting up the road, its mottled blue and grey attire resolving itself into a Stormcloak uniform as it approached. She chose one of the arrows, already carefully dipped in the resinous paralysis toxin she had prepared, and fitted it onto her bow. If her aim was good, the poison would be unnecessary, but she didn't like to take chances.

She waited until the courier was well within range before she drew the arrow back and sighted along its length, calculating for movement, windspeed and distance. As she loosed the deadly projectile, she reached for another, just in case, but the dart had struck home. The Stormcloak dropped in the road like a stone, without even a sound. Gallica slung her bow over her shoulder, gathered the arrows, and picked her way back down the slope and over to the dead courier, a woman from the shape of the body. The arrow had driven through the rusty chainmail and directly through her heart. In all likelihood, the courier had been dead before she had hit the ground.

Grimly, Gallica collected the pouch and opened it. There were several documents inside, and she would let Rikke sort them out when she returned to the camp. A thought struck her and she squatted, gently removing the Stormcloak's helmet. A shock of mussed blonde hair in a short braid coiled out, and the face that stared up at her contained glassy blue eyes that were no less wide and frightened looking in death than they had been when Gallica had last seen them at the inn. She reached down and closed the dead girl's eyes and sighed deeply. The world was a cruel place. A life could be spared, then revoked just as easily, and you could drive yourself mad asking why. The best you could hope for was that one day the scales would balance out.

She drug the girl off of the road and tucked her into a crevice in the rocks, rocks over the entrance to keep wolves out. Taking the girl's sword, she wedged it into the rocks and hung the Stormcloak helm on the hilt. It would be visible from the road, so perhaps a patrol or another traveler would find the corpse and report the courier's death. Gallica knew all too well what it was like not to know what had happened to the body of a loved one, wondering if maybe the reports were wrong and they were just lost out there in the world somewhere. If the dead girl had a family, Gallica would not wish that pain and uncertainty on them.

Hiking back along the shale scrabble hills, she found her horse and set off back for the Imperial camp in a subdued mood. There was a battle to be fought soon and Rikke's plan would probably save a few lives on both sides when it was all said and done. It was that ethical calculus that let Gallica, and all the other soldiers who could imagine the faces of people they knew in the opposing ranks, keep on.


	16. Duty Waits for No One

The battle for Fort Dunstad was almost disappointing in its brevity. Daunted by the weather and recent defeats, denied reinforcements and needed supplies through Rikke's subterfuge of intercepting and forging the Stormcloak marching orders, the majority of the fort defenders that were not killed in the main assault either surrendered or fled. Many were injured or ill to begin with and almost all were suffering from the beginning stages of malnutrition. Much of their supplies appeared to have gone to feed the troop surge before Whiterun, as had their healer. Even their commander was barely able to stand to deliver his formal surrender, having fallen gravely ill with fever from an infected wound some days before.

Those who had fled would find no shelter in Dawnstar, though. While Rikke's soldiers attacked the fort, Legate Tituleius and his legion had marched on the hold itself. By all reports, the takeover had been nearly bloodless. Jarl Skald had too serrated and belligerent a personality to be well-loved among his own people and there were too few men and women of fighting ability and inclination left in the town to mount a decent defense anyway after multiple waves of Stormcloak recruitment. In the end, a local retired Legion officer named Brina Merilis was installed as Jarl in the White Hall, which seemed to suit Rikke just fine.

"She's a good woman," the legate told Gallica as they went through the reports. "I doubt Ulfric will be able to push troops through Winterhold to retaliate soon, but I'd put good money on Merilis to give them a fight they wouldn't easily forget."

"And Skald?"

"No sense in keeping him around as a hostage. He's no use to the Stormcloaks without Dawnstar behind him, unless he wants to take up a sword himself. Can't think of anyone else that would want him, though, and he is…well, was…a Jarl, so Tituleius will send word down to Windhelm to arrange safe escort. He was Ulfric's biggest supporter. Let Ulfric figure out what to do with him."

Gallica nodded. In a way, she felt sorry for the deposed Jarl. He might be an irascible old bastard, but having your life swept completely out from under you was not an easy thing for anyone to contend with.

"As for the prisoners here, the garrison will keep the survivors in hand for now," Rikke continued. "Normally, I'd send for a headsman, make a few examples so no one gets any ideas, but this bunch looks like they've had the fight taken out of them pretty thoroughly already. I think the mission would be better served through mercy than the axe for now."

"I agree."

"I'm going to stay on hand in Dawnstar to help set up the defense and make sure Merilis settles into her new title without too much opposition. I've got a feeling we won't be going far after we leave here. As for you, I'm sending you back to Solitude with the report. After some recent problems in the south, the general was adamant about sensitive information being sent in safe hands. Yours are the safest I've got. I trust you'll take precautions to prevent another incident."

Gallica had told Rikke about the abduction attempt, though she had been careful with the details and spun it as more of an opportunistic strike by a random Stormcloak patrol. If she was to have a prayer of getting Ulfric out of Imperial custody, she needed her superiors to believe that all ties between her and Ulfric were permanently severed so that she could work beneath suspicion. She told herself that the lie was necessary, but it did not make her feel better about it.

"The weather's clear now. I'll ride straight through from Morthal."

"Do that," Rikke replied, pointedly. "You're good, but don't get cocky. If one of those Stormcloaks had decided to slit your throat instead, you'd have an embarrassing story to tell up in Sovngarde and I'd be out a perfectly good junior officer. I hate training new officers."

"I'll keep that in mind, ma'am," Gallica said, unable to keep from cracking a smile.

~~0~~

The mood in Castle Dour was decidedly subdued when Gallica arrived. The war room was empty except for Legate Adventus, who greeted her warmly.

"We heard about Dawnstar. That ought to put a knot in Ulfric's tail," he said, smiling at her briefly before his expression became serious again. "You're here to report in to General Tullius, Quaestor?"

"Yes, sir."

"He's upstairs in his office. Word of warning, though. He's in a foul temper today. I'd be sure to mind my manners if I were you."

"Thank you, sir, I'll take that under advisement."

He nodded her off and she hurried up the stairs towards the office, wondering what she would find inside. She had only ever seen Tullius break with civility once, at Helgen, but everyone had their eruption point. It was none of her business, but she was curious at what could rattle the normally taciturn general all the same. The door was open and Gallica could see Tullius seated at the writing desk as she approached, his brow knit in a frown of concentration. He gripped the quill so tightly that she could hear the scratching of the nib on parchment from the doorway.

"Sir." she started, knocking briefly to alert him to her presence.

"Now what?" he growled, irritably, looking up. As his eyes lit on her, his peevish expression lifted slightly and his tone smoothed. "Gallica. Come in. Close the door behind you."

She did as she was bid and approached the desk, as Tullius finished scrawling a last couple of sentences and sat back, tossing his quill down with more force than was necessary. He looked more tired and harassed than angry, she thought, as if the long hours were catching up to him or he was not sleeping well. Probably both, she guessed, sympathetically.

"I trust you, at least, have good news for me."

"If victory in the Pale is good news, sir, then I think you might be in luck."

He smiled slightly at that, though she could still see the tension in his jaw and shoulders.

"So I hear. Have a seat. And you can hold the 'sir's."

"That would be insubordination." she observed, taking the chair across from his desk, but she smiled as she said it and he snorted in mock annoyance.

"I'll make it an order then. Will that do?" he asked, and then glanced at her tentatively as if trying to judge her thoughts from her expression. "It's been a difficult week and you're not some young newly-minted officer that needs reminding about how things are supposed to go. By now, I think we can drop the hierarchical play-acting and talk plainly."

In an earlier time, with anyone else, Gallic would have protested. Her childhood had made her sensitive about receiving special consideration and the conformity and structure of the Legion was something of a balm after the ordeal of being the Dragonborn. However, she knew Tullius well enough by now to perceive that this was a request, not an empty honor. When she looked into his dark eyes, beneath the weariness and irritation, she could see the faintest specter of need and that filled her with compassion. She understood all too well what it was like to feel alone and overwhelmed, to be surrounded by people who needed you to be constantly strong and in charge, because she had been there herself.

"I think I can handle that."

"Good," he replied, relaxing very slightly. "Tell me about Dawnstar."

She passed him Rikke's report, which he skimmed through while listening to her exegesis of the campaign. He frowned as he neared the end of the report.

"What's this about you being captured?"

Gallica winced internally. It was too much to have expected the incident to go unreported, but she had hoped that she would be out of the vicinity by the time the general read about it. She hated lying, and she found the prospect of concealing the truth from Tullius even more difficult and troublesome than she had with Rikke.

"I was caught by the weather and some opportunistic Stormcloaks decided to take advantage of the situation. They convinced the innkeeper at Nightgate to drug me. I dealt with them."

"Cowards. We'll see to it that the proprietor finds out what happens to people who poison Legion personnel, as well," he said, scowling as he set the papers down. He studied her for a long moment, his expression serious before shaking his head. "Accidents happen, and I know you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, so I won't lecture you. Just keep in mind that you're a high profile target now. You have to be careful."

"I know. I'll keep a better watch on my company in future."

"Nothing is allowed to happen to you out there, remember that," he concluded, before his expression turned thoughtful and inward again, his lip curling in disgust. "I've got enough on my plate as it is without losing one of the few sensible people I know up here."

"New developments?" she asked, curiously, and he glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow in assent.

"If it's not the damn Thalmor and their endless demands, it's our own people wasting my time. I'm not sure which aggravates me more." Tullius shook his head and then sighed deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose and his eyes. "Speaking of which, I have to apologize for having to leave suddenly when you were last in town. Adventus sent you my note?"

"He did. And I understand. Duty waits for no one."

"Would that this particular duty had waited, or better yet buggered off entirely," he replied, almost wistfully, and then looked her in the eyes. Something was clearly troubling him. Gallica wanted to ask what it was, to try to help him somehow, but she knew there were issues of security and she did not know how far it would be permissible to pry. Perhaps the general sensed what she was thinking, because he continued then, slowly, as if moving into difficult and unfamiliar territory. "I know you've had to make some decisions with far reaching consequences yourself. Do you ever wonder how your decisions will be seen in ten or twenty years, or even a hundred, from now? What effects they will have?"

"Every day," she confessed, honestly, and decided to press a little since he had already opened the door, "Are you worried about the war?"

"No. At this point, the Stormcloaks have little chance of pulling together a successful defense in the eleventh hour. I know that what we're doing here is the only thing that can be done, and the best thing in the long run," he answered. "I have always been loyal to the Emperor and to the Empire. I follow my orders the same way that I expect any of my people to follow orders. At the same time, when I find myself enforcing decisions made by those before and above me that allow innocent citizens to suffer, I wonder how I'm supposed to turn a blind eye to it."

The depth of the vulnerability and trouble in his expression broke her heart with its familiarity.

"I've never been able to answer that question for myself, either," she replied quietly, and he nodded.

"I say this to you because I trust you not to repeat it outside of this room and I know you've seen similar situations. And also, because I think you understand as well as I do where the real threat in this war lies."

"The Thalmor."

"The White-Gold Concordat could not have been better designed to divide the Empire," Tullius agreed, bitterly, his expression hardening. "Outlawing Talos-worship was a tactical strike against Skyrim. That I am now obligated to assist the same enemies that I fought twenty-five years ago in their pointless witch-hunt and deliver up our own citizens for their torture hooks galls me to no end. The Stormcloaks are damned fools for not seeing what's really happening here, but it's hard to feel like we're completely in the right in this when I have to sign off on another round of inquisitions every month."

He stood and paced a few steps around the room, agitated. She rose quietly and waited, as he gathered his thoughts.

"This civil war is a ploy," he said, finally, stopping in place without looking at her. "There are things I can't discuss, even with you, but I don't believe we're done fighting the Thalmor. And I have a feeling that the war that comes after this one is going to be worse than anything we've ever seen."

The mix of intensity and fatigue in his voice touched her and Gallica crossed the room, moving around the desk to lay a hand on his shoulder. It was not something she ever would have attempted with anyone above or below her in the chain of command before, but the conversation had moved beyond the constraints of their working lives. The carefully formed steel and leather of his pauldron was cool under her palm, but he reacted as if she had touched flesh, an intake of breath, the skin at the back of his neck prickling with goosebumps. That he did not pull away, and even seemed to lean into the touch ever so slightly, provoked a complex and powerful range of emotions in Gallica as well and it took her a moment to find her words again.

"You are doing the right thing. There are situations over which you have no control, and that is not your fault. You are doing the best you can with what you have available to you. No one can ask more of you than that," she said, because she knew it was what he needed to hear and because she believed it. "You will win this war. Whatever enemies arise afterwards, we will defeat them also. The gods will never abandon the Empire. Have faith."

He turned his head slightly as if listening and then, to Gallica's surprise, reached up and put a hand over hers. The gesture of unexpected intimacy made her chill and hot flash in paralyzing succession and she stood, rooted the spot, as Tullius turned, her hand still clasped in his, to look into her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could begin there was a knock at the door. His shoulders sagged and he sighed from between gritted teeth, his eyes rolling up at the ceiling as if sending a "_why now?"_ up to the Divines.

"Who is it?" he called, gruffly, as Gallica stepped back, feeling both extraordinarily embarrassed and desperately confused. She was blushing so fiercely that she felt like her face might catch on fire at any moment, but she quickly tried to regain her composure, adjusting her posture and turning away as if they had been studying a map pinned up onto the wall.

"Adventus, sir," the muffled voice said from the other side of the door. "You asked to be notified when the reports came in from the Reach."

Tullius paused for a long moment, and she could almost hear him grinding his teeth.

"Come in."

Gallica heard the door open behind her, and stared resolutely at the map, trying her best to give the impression that nothing strange was going on at all. She heard the rustle of armor and paper behind her, and then a pause, before Tullius cleared his throat.

"That will be all for now, Quaestor. Dismissed."

Gallica turned, saluting, and made her way quickly out of the office. She waited until she was down the stairs and out in the frosty air of the castle yard before she allowed herself to take a deep breath and exhale it sharply, raising her palms to her eyes. Oblivious of the odd looks from the door guards, she starting off at a fast clip towards her house, where hopefully Jordis had managed to stock the larder by now and she could digest what had just happened with the aid of a stiff drink.

~~0~~

The summons arrived early the following morning and it was with some trepidation that Gallica went back up to Castle Dour. Over the intervening hours, she had managed to convince herself that she had entirely misinterpreted the events of her previous meeting with Tullius and was half afraid that she had managed to put a permanent strain on both their friendship and working relationship all at once. If she had not completely disgraced herself, she at least owed him an apology. Even more upsetting to her, if possible, was the tidal wave of conflicting emotions that hit her during and in the wake of the incident, the intense awareness of her own physical response to his touch, the sudden upsurge of feelings she had not even realized were there.

She had loved Ulfric. No, she _still_ loved Ulfric, and that she could react so strongly to another man now made her feel guilty, as if she had been unfaithful. It was not a rational point of view. More than a month had passed since she had left him. Gallica didn't even know if it was possible to repair the rift between them at this point and, after the failed kidnapping incident, whether she even wanted to try, beyond preventing his death. There were few people who would fault her if she simply cut her losses and moved on. Under different circumstances, Tullius would be a more than eligible match, but even allowing herself to think about it felt like betrayal now.

She found Tullius was in the war-room, engaged in what appeared to be a very serious discussion with Legate Adventus and a few others she did not recognize. When he saw her, he excused himself and walked over. He was not smiling, and Gallica felt her heart catch in her throat.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," she managed to say, despite the sudden dryness in her mouth. His expression softened, slightly, and he glanced briefly back at the others.

"Let's take a walk, I could do with some fresh air."

She followed him out into courtyard, lit by the cold, grey light of dawn rising over the walls. He waited until they were far enough away from the door guards to speak.

"There's been a change of plans," he began, his eyes trained thoughtfully ahead of him as they strolled along the wall. "Markarth can't wait any longer. I'm redirecting forces there to intercept the threat now. I've already sent a rider up to Rikke. In her absence, I need you down there to help with the preparation as soon as possible."

"Of course, sir," Gallica replied, surprised.

"I'm promoting you to Praefect effective immediately and assigning you a detail of triarii. They should be assembling here in the courtyard shortly. You'll need to report in to Legate Admand at the staging camp northeast of Markarth. Rikke should be along once she's had a chance to mobilize. I have a packet of intelligence for you to deliver as well." He stopped and looked at her, gravely. "It's time to stop pussyfooting around the rebel holds. As soon as Markarth is regained, you'll be heading directly to Winterhold for a repeat performance. I want this fight over with before the northern ports thaw, and I don't want to give Eastmarch any more time than necessary to shore up Windhelm. The sooner we finish this, the better."

"By your orders," she responded, nodding.

"And about yesterday..." he began, and she looked down, feeling the heat rising in her face again.

"I was out of line, I'm…"

"Not at all," he interrupted, smiling faintly. "In fact, you've clarified a few things for me. I want to talk about it more, but it will have to wait until you get back. Until then, be safe. As I said previously, you're too important for anything to happen to you, so don't disappoint me."

"Yes, sir."

With that, he smiled at her and turned to go back inside. She watched him leave, a mixture of the same confusing emotions, guilt, and relief swirling through her mind, and then shook her back to the present. There was a lot to be done if she was going to march out today, and she could see the first of the triarii assembling in the training yard already. Breaking into a jog, she hurried back to the manor to collect her gear. There would be time to continue flogging herself over her feelings later. Duty waited for no one.


	17. At the Eleventh Hour

_A short chapter, because the next one is going to be quite long I think and may take some time to write. We are, sadly, coming down to the last few chapters, so I want to make them good ones. Thanks to everyone who has kept up with this story, I really appreciate the comments, PMs, follows, etc and I'm glad you're enjoying it. Happy Solstice/Christmas/Winter Holiday of Choice!_

* * *

The daylight hours waned down into the cold darkness of midwinter, even as the conflict in Skyrim drew closer to a head. The Reach had been more difficult to recover than anyone in the Legion could have predicted. Though they were cut off from reinforcements, the Stormcloak force that had taken over Markarth and the surrounding lands had dug themselves in, using the honeycomb of peaks, grottos, and caves that made up the region to their advantage. The Imperial troops were fighting an uphill battle against an enemy that seemed, at times, to melt away into the landscape itself. But the Legion had superior numbers and time in their favor. Finally, faced with the prospect of a siege and mounting popular unrest within the city itself, the Stormcloak Jarl had no choice but to surrender, and Markarth was once again in Imperial hands, though losses on both sides had been considerable.

Midwinter found Gallica on the move, marching into the inhospitable tundra of Winterhold. How anyone managed to eke out an existence there was a mystery to Gallica, but it was the last ally that Ulfric could call on to aid him in the war. The delay in the Reach had allowed troops from Eastmarch to shore up the defenses and conduct a series of raids on the Pale's boundaries, but it was more of a distraction than a serious attempt at defense. A barricade to give Eastmarch time to regroup before the final crisis.

"You've been promoted," Rikke remarked to Gallica, as she shuffled through the dispatches from Solitude that had finally caught up with them "Tribune. Congratulations."

Gallica said nothing, only inclined her head in acknowledgement. She was exhausted, as they all were after a full day of travel, and her men had already been seen to and dismissed for the evening. All she wanted to do was conclude business as soon as possible so she could go wrap herself around a warm meal and a bed somewhere. There would be planning tomorrow. She doubted the full assault was less than two or three days away, but intelligence would need to be gathered and considered, battle tactics needed to be discussed.

After her assistance at Whiterun and the Reach, Rikke was relying more and more on Gallica's input when planning strategy. It was an honor for her opinions to be respected so highly, but that honor came at the price of peace of mind. She was always on task now, constantly churning through scenarios and possible complications. Even her sleep was full of sieges and troop movements, though not all the battlefields in her dreams seemed to be in Skyrim and some she thought she recognized as having been won or lost many years ago. _I'm going mad_, she sometimes thought when she awoke, but the dreams often came with flashes of insight and the sense that a familiar, benign presence was nearby, watching over her. If this was madness, then it was a useful madness and she did not speak of it to anyone.

After a few more remarks about the reports and new orders from the capitol, Rikke dismissed her and Gallica stepped back out into the snow. The camp was overfull, some of the new arrivals still scurrying to put up tents and corral horses. There was no way that the Stormcloak army did not know exactly where they were with all of this racket and activity. Camp followers had come up from the Pale and Whiterun to see to the soldier's needs and she could smell food and hear laughter from elsewhere in the camp. As she picked her way towards the tents where she and her men would be quartered, a woman stepped in front of her, talking over her shoulder to a companion instead of looking where she was going, and bumped into her hard.

"Begging your pardon," The woman exclaimed, apologetically. "Should have been watching where I was going, eh? No offense meant, of course."

"It's alright," Gallica replied, brusquely, annoyed. The woman bent down and picked something up.

"Oh, looks like you dropped this." She pressed the object into Gallica's hand before she could protest, and bowed obsequiously again. "My apologies, ma'am, won't happen again."

"Wait…" Gallica started, but the woman and her friend had disappeared into the morass of the camp again. In the darkness, she had not gotten a good look at the two of them and so there was no way to pick them out among the bodies that were coming and going among the tents. Looking down at the object she had been given, she found it was a tightly rolled slip of paper, bound with a bit of cloth cording in faded grey-blue. An odd warning prickle began in the back of her mind as she stepped over close enough to one of the torches to read by and quickly unrolled the paper.

_Dragonborn. We need to talk. No tricks this time. I will be at the Tower Stone to the northeast at midnight._

Her breath caught in her throat as if someone had kicked her hard in the gut. Quickly, Gallica turned the paper over, turned it back and scanned the handwriting. She could not tell if it was Ulfric's writing between the bad light and the poor quality of the medium. But she could think of no one else that it could be.

She should not go. Every ounce of the soldier in her knew that she should turn around and deliver this to Rikke immediately. It was almost certainly a trap. Ulfric would not risk himself by being out here. But. What if it was real? What if Ulfric really was out there waiting for her?

Gallica crumpled the note and shoved it into the pouch at her belt. It was a few hours before midnight, perhaps. Plenty of time to make the trip to the Tower Stone. It would be easy enough to steal out of camp without anyone noticing. By the same token, she had already nearly been captured when she was alone. It would be exceedingly foolish to walk straight into a trap after the last close call. Even if it was not a trap, if Ulfric really was there to talk, he would only try to convince her to join him again in a last blaze of glory. And she was not at all certain that she could bear that. And yet, what if that was not the reason? What if he knew it was hopeless and finally, finally wanted a way out?

_This is stupid_, Gallica argued with herself as she turned and strode towards the corrals, looking for her horse. _This is unequivocally the stupidest thing you will ever do and you will regret it. There is nothing about this that can end well._

_I don't care_, her heart replied. If there was a chance…even a small chance…that Ulfric had finally come to his senses, then she had to go.

~~0~~

Brilliant twists and snarls of blue and green light roped across the heavens as Gallica tethered her horse to a gnarled cedar tree. The dim outline of the standing stones was visible in the distance, jutting up like teeth against the eerie glow of sky and sea, and she patted the horse's neck once more for reassurance and started carefully towards her destination. _This is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong_, the drumbeat of her heart seemed to pound at her, but she kept on, moving slowly and carefully and watching for slightest indication of a trap.

Gallica heard the snort of another horse somewhere in the distance to the west and froze. There was a movement among the stones as a figure stood from where it had been leaning and looked around. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she held her breath, eyes scanning for any other sources of movement. Was it _him_? She could not tell at this distance. When, after a few moments, she could detect no other movement in the area except for the light ocean breeze, she moved forward again, excited for and afraid of what she might find all at the same time.

Before the figure even stepped out from the shadows of the stones, she realized that it was not Ulfric and her heart sank in bitter disappointment. The man was too short and thickly built to be the man she had loved, but there was still a chance that he had been sent to assure _she_ had come and that Ulfric was nearby. When the man spoke, though, even that hope was shattered.

"Huh. I honestly didn't think you'd have the stones to show," a too familiar, growly voice said. It grated at her like the sound of a grinding wheel in need of oil. Galmar Stone-fist scowled back at her in the starlight, as if this were just as unpleasant for him.

"What do you want? Where's Ulfric?" she breathed, almost as one sentence, and Galmar's scarred face wrinkled in a grimace that could have been disgust or amusement. Or both.

"He's not here. That's all you need to know right now," the old Nord replied flatly. "Enough chitchat. For some fool reason, Ulfric thinks you can be reasoned with. I told him it was a waste of time, but he refused to believe it, so here we are."

"So, Ulfric sent you here?"

"Ysmir's beard, woman, do you think I'd be out here on my own account? If you want to crawl back to Windhelm and Ulfric, now's your chance. You go back, help fix your mess, and all is forgiven. By Ulfric, at least."

Gallica stared at him for a moment, not sure what to make of it. Was it a trick? Was Ulfric seriously offering to let her return, carte blanche, with his plans almost entirely in ruins around him? Because he loved her or because he thought she could pull his irons out of the fire in the war or some strange fusion of both? If this was not a trick, she wished Ulfric had come himself. The answers she needed were the ones only he could give her.

"Why now?"

Galmar shook his head, looking away from her with a tight, disgruntled expression, and did not answer for a long moment.

"You already know the reason. And if you don't, then that just goes to show I was right about you from the beginning."

The simplicity of the statement stung her to the core and it was all she could do to keep from doubling over as if from real physical pain. She forced herself to stand upright, her fists clenching so hard she could feel the nails pressing like knifepoints into the flesh of her palms.

"Galmar, listen to me," she began, and shook her head to stop him before he could bite back with an interruption. The tone in her voice seemed to stop him as much as the gesture, and he gazed at her mistrustfully. "I know we've had our differences, but there's one thing we both care about and that's Ulfric. You know this war is already over. You know there's only one way this can end if it goes through to the natural conclusion. I can't fight for him, but I don't want him to die. You have to convince him to leave Skyrim. Get him out while you still can."

The only sound for a moment was the wind and the nearby rush and flow of the sea.

"You women. You're all alike," Galmar grumbled, finally. There was a deep bitterness in his tone and his craggy features hardened. "Everything's always a fight. Everything's always got to be difficult. You're never easy with what you've got. If you're coming with me, get your horse and let's go. If not, then go back to your Legion and Talos grant it be my axe that sends you to Oblivion."

One part of her told her that she could go to Ulfric now and convince him to leave with her herself. If he still loved her, then maybe she could prevail upon him and it would be cleaner and easier than trying to slip him out of Imperial custody later. It was a long shot, but maybe. Even as those thoughts entered her mind, though, she was aware of how deeply they hurt. She had never deserted a post before. In the middle of a war, it was cowardly. Ultimate dishonor. And, as her father had told her what seemed like too many years ago now, honor was the only thing that anyone ever truly possessed. Without honor, what was the point?

And then, there was Tullius. She had never really let herself consider the far-reaching implications of her plan before, but now she could imagine the look on Tullius' face when he received the news…either that she had absconded with Ulfric or that she had been captured or killed as an insurrectionist traitor…and it made her cringe. He had trusted her when she would not have trusted herself. He had had faith that her better nature would win out, but he had let it be her choice in the end. Her feelings for him of late were complicated, Gallica didn't understand them and she was ashamed to even admit they were there, but was she actually going to prove him wrong after everything?

"Will you take a message to Ulfric, at least?" she asked, numbly. Galmar scowled, but inclined his head briefly in assent. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled off her glove and removed Ulfric's ring from her finger. It felt like she was severing a part of her own body, but she held it out to Galmar. "Tell him I love him, but there are things I can't do. Tell him I will try to save him. Will you do that?"

He took the ring, his lip curling in an explosive expression, and he nodded.

"Fine."

She stepped back and turned to go and he called after her, roughly.

"Don't dawdle on your way to Windhelm, Dragonborn. I'm looking forward to mounting your head on the gates personally. You and that Imperial milkdrinker general. Tell _him_ I said that."

Gallica said nothing. She kept walking until she reached her horse and then she rode back to camp as fast as she dared in the darkness.

A few days later, when she and Hadvar lead the force that overwhelmed Fort Kastav, clearing the last obstacle between the Legion and Winterhold, and she spotted a man in a bear-skin helm riding at breakneck speed away from the fort with a small gaggle of survivors, she stopped her men from the pursuit. She might have to kill Galmar one day, or maybe it would be the other way around, but for now she knew he would fall back to Windhelm and that he would protect Ulfric with his life. For what was soon to come, someone would have to.


	18. The Beginning of the End

The final assault on Eastmarch would have to come from the Rift. The mountains to the northeast of Whiterun formed too much of a barrier and the frigid coastal plain in Winterhold was too treacherous to move a glut of troops through quickly. The temperate birch forests to the north of Riften, though, were ideal and it was there that Rikke directed her Legion, joining the small Imperial camp nestled within spitting distance of Eastmarch's border.

"You're the first to arrive," Legate Hrollod, the camp commander, explained as Rikke and Gallica clustered around the planning table. "We're expecting the legion from Falkreath at any moment, and a rider from Solitude arrived this morning. General Tullius himself and the Solitude legions should be here in three days."

"That's 20,000 men," Rikke replied, approvingly. "The Whiterun garrison and Morthal are providing the troops for the northern offensive. That makes close to 35,000 all told. With the losses Ulfric's taken, and the number of prisoners we've got in the camps, I'd like to see him put up a fourth of that in able bodied fighters."

"The scouts report that, aside from the area around Fort Amol, the countryside has pretty much been abandoned by the rebels," Hrollod mused, tapping the fort's location on the map. "The bulk of the Stormcloaks have holed up in Windhelm already. Rough country, though, and Ulfric's well-liked among the farm yokels. The ones that haven't already taken up an axe for him by now will take up their pitchforks once the Legion rolls in."

"That fort would make a perfect staging point for the siege on Windhelm," Gallica suggested, and Rikke nodded. "There's high ground and a clear corridor close to there for the catapults. And taking the fort would provide protection from local raids. I don't foresee many farmers being brazen enough to stage a full out assault against stone walls and archers. The less we destroy now, the more quickly things will settle back down once the war is over. If the farmers already feel disgruntled towards the Empire, burning down their farmsteads won't win us any friends."

"True enough," Rikke said, frowning in concentration. "This valley won't sustain the full troop surge for long. Falkreath will need time to get their catapults through the Rift, and the Solitude heavies are slow marchers. Three days sounds like a low estimate. Might as well see what we can do about this Fort Amol while we're waiting. If the general's lucky, he'll be able to sleep inside proper stone walls when he gets here."

~~0~~

General Tullius would indeed be lucky. As Rikke had predicted, the Solitude legions did not arrive until five days later, which was plenty of time for scouts to report back and for Gallica to take a cohort and route the remaining Stormcloaks from the fort. By the time the Imperial dragon standard was visible on the horizon, shining like a golden beacon in the late afternoon sun, Rikke's legion had moved into their new garrison and repairs and preparations for a long-term camp in the surrounding area were underway.

"I'm not sure what I should think when I arrive to find that my officers have things so firmly in hand already. It makes a general feel rather superfluous." Tullius remarked, with mock severity, as Rikke led him and two other legates from Solitude whose names Gallica could not recall on inspection through the fort. Gallica followed behind, listening quietly, and stopped as Tullius halted to survey the crumbling stone fortifications around him. Rikke's expression was as tight as a drum and Gallica wondered if the legate had caught the joke yet. It was obvious to Gallica that Tullius was pleased, but she knew he enjoyed tormenting his serious chief officer. He cast a conspiratorial wink back at Gallica as he harrumphed, "I suppose it just goes to demonstrate my skill as a commander."

"Yes, sir," Rikke replied, moving on quickly. "Legate Hrollod has the scout reports from Windhelm inside if you'd like to review them…"

Gallica let her mind drift as she followed the others into the keep to where the new war-room had been set up. She had heard the new intelligence a dozen times by now and it was the first time she had seen Tullius in a little over a month. He seemed to be in good health and in better spirits. Well, they were on the doorstep of victory, she supposed. Everyone was energized with the prospect of an end to the fighting. She didn't know what to make of the wash of relief she felt when she saw him, just that it made her feel slightly better about what was coming while simultaneously inspiring a mounting sense of anxiety as she remember the particulars of her last visit to Solitude, the feeling of his hand clasped around hers…

"Rikke's reports indicate that you've been an invaluable asset, Tribune. Both on the field and at the planning table. I've heard the same from others under my command." Tullius said, snapping Gallica back to the present.

"Thank you, sir. I try to be useful."

"She's the most competent officer I've had in my command," Rikke agreed. "Dragonborn aside. My only complaint is that I don't have a dozen more of her."

"Since we've come to rely on you so heavily, then, and since your service to the Empire thus far has been exemplary in every way,"Tullius said, smiling, "I think it's only fit that we welcome you into the upper echelon of the Legion. Rikke will just have to promote a new junior officer. Congratulations, Legate."

Gallica's heart began to pound as she stared at him in surprise. This was what she had dreamed about all of those years ago when she had first taken the oath as an idealistic sixteen year old recruit. It had come sooner than she had thought, but whatever acceleration being the Dragonborn had put on her career, she knew she had earned this one fairly. Tullius was a friend, but Rikke would not have recommended the promotion if she had not been convinced of Gallica's merit.

"I'm honored, sir," Gallica replied, formally, unable to keep the smile off of her face.

"Don't think this means your job is about to get easier, either. I want that city, and I expect you…all of you…to help me get it. Yesterday, if possible. Now, since the niceties are out of the way, let's get down to business."

~~0~~

The next few days were a frantic blur of activity. The catapults arrived from Falkreath and had to be moved into defendable positions. By now, Windhelm was well aware of the Imperial troops closing in around them. The walls fairly bristled with archers and the scouts reported that the stables and surrounding structures had been evacuated. An oppressive silence fell over the landscape. Even the wildlife seemed to have moved on as the forward lines swelled with soldiers, waiting for the orders to move on the city. Gallica spent what seemed like every waking hour pouring over maps, surveying the battlefield, consulting with the other legates and other commanders, and following General Tullius as he surveyed the troops. A large percentage of the Legion here were Skyrim-born Nords. It was important for them to see the Dragonborn, their folk hero, standing behind the Empire and Gallica did her best not disappoint. Whatever misgivings still ran through her mind, she kept them to herself. The time for questions had long since passed.

Finally, the eve of battle was upon them. Everything was in place. The city was surrounded on all sides. There was no escape for the denizens of Windhelm now.

"We'll do this by the book," Tullius had told the legates as they clustered around the planning table under the smoky light of the torches. "I'll give Ulfric's people one last chance to come to their senses and surrender. Once the ram has touched the gates, though, no quarter will be given to anyone holding a weapon inside Windhelm. Not a soul leaves that city until we have Ulfric Stormcloak in custody."

Afterwards, the legates dispersed to deliver final orders and stoke the readiness of the men under their command. Gallica, too recently promoted to have been given a specific command yet, walked the battlements of the fort and looked out over the sea of fires and torches that stretched down the river valley towards Windhelm. Ulfric was there somewhere. She wondered what he was thinking tonight, whether he was up there on the ramparts of the city looking back out at her, and then she tried not to think about it. She had made her decision about Ulfric and, as much as she hated it, she knew it was right.

She had turned over plan after plan to get him away and out of the city before he could be locked down in a prison somewhere or executed, but there was no permutation of the situation Gallica could devise that she thought would actually work. She had considered approaching the Thieves Guild, but there was no amount of coin that could guarantee they would not collect from her and then immediately turn Ulfric in. He was too well-known. Even if she was able to pay someone to smuggle him onto a ship bound for the north of Morrowind, the finger of suspicion would have to fall somewhere. Someone's head would have to roll for that offense, and if it was not hers then it would be some innocent. She was not willing to trade one person's life for another, not even for Ulfric. If she were going to go that route, she would have to abandon everything she'd ever known and go with him, find a life elsewhere. The blame would fall on the proper shoulders then, at least, and she would be beyond the immediate reach of the Empire, but what would come afterwards? She would be responsible for Ulfric and whatever he did next, and she did not doubt by now that he would hate her for it. And what of the people who had trusted her…Tullius, Rikke, the loyalist Nords who still looked to a Dragonborn for guidance?

Gallica mused over the problem as returned to the long barracks room where the officers slept and stowed her armor carefully away, checking it over one last time though she had oiled and cleaned it earlier. Alone, she took down her braid and shook out her long honey-colored hair, wild and coarse from weeks out in the field, and was about to lay back on her rough cot to rest awhile when there was a knock at the door. Sighing, she stood and opened it to find a young Nord footsoldier standing there.

"I…ah," he spluttered, surprised, and then blushed from his hairline to his neck. He stood up straight, looking at her as reverently as if he were addressing the Emperor, "Ma'am. General Tullius sent me to find you. He's in his quarters."

"Thank you, soldier. Carry on."

The young man saluted rather clumsily, and hurried away. Gallica looked down at her armor critically, and then decided that Tullius would understand if she was out of uniform. It was too late by now to worry about putting it all back on, and she was technically as off duty as one could be before a battle. She raked her fingers through her hair quickly, washed her face, and stepped out into the chilly hallway.

Tullius answered the door at the second knock, and stepped back to allow her in.

"Good, I thought you might still be close at hand," he said, closing the door behind her. The chamber had belonged to the late Stormcloak commander, and it was relatively spacious though only slightly more furnished than the common barracks space. Gallica could see Tullius' armor laid out neatly nearby, his sword propped against the wall in easy reach of the bed, and that made her relax slightly. It was a practice that nearly every legionnaire picked up over time and most carried with them ever after, and it was oddly comforting to see that even Tullius had never quite lost the habit. "I thought a stiff drink might be order, if you're not otherwise occupied. I've been saving a bottle of brandy for the victory, but it's my experience that it goes down a lot better the night before."

He moved over to a table in the room and picked up a dark brown bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy, pouring the fine, amber-colored liquid into two cups. He offered her one.

"Hazard of rank, you see. The legates are off seeing to their people, as they should be, and I find I'm left to my own devices. You'd do me a kindness by saving me from the deplorable state of drinking alone."

"If it's for a noble cause, how can I refuse?" she replied, accepting the cup. He raised his own in toast and then tossed it back and Gallica tasted hers, the fiery flavor of the drink burning down her throat. She had sworn off strong liquors after the incident at Nightgate Inn, but she doubted this batch was drugged and she could make an exception on a night like tonight and in this company.

It felt strange to be alone with Tullius again. With the treasonous plots that had consumed her mind since she had spoken with Galmar and the awkward memory of her last visit to Solitude, she could scarcely look him in the eye, afraid he would be able to read her like a book. Perhaps he sensed her reticence, because his expression changed, becoming more serious, and waved her to the more comfortable chair and sat down on the edge of the bed himself.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" he asked, probing cautiously. Gallica made a noncommittal gesture with her shoulders and then nodded.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Very sensible. Anyone who says he isn't nervous before a battle is a liar or a madman." Tullius replied, and refilled both of their cups. "But, we're as prepared as we're going to be. Anything that crops up that we haven't planned on will just have to sort out as it arises. And, I realized the other day, I haven't lost a battle since you re-enlisted. You're my lucky charm, it seems."

Gallica smiled a weak half-smile and sipped her drink to keep from having to meet his gaze. It was hard to keep secrets and wrestle down the throng of conflicting feelings he evoked in her when he was looking at her like that. The warmth in his tone only made it worse and she felt as if she were going to unravel at the seams, even as she found it reassuring. She had thought that the distant, ever-present mental ache she had been experiencing lately was all due to Ulfric, but Gallica now realized that at least part of it was that she had left on uneasy ground with Tullius and she had missed him.

"Will you return to Cyrodiil after the war is over?" she asked to pull the conversation away from herself, hearing the subtle quaver in her voice as she did so.

"No," he replied, and sighed. "No, I think Skyrim is going to be my home for quite a few years to come. Elisif will need the Legion's assistance to maintain order, and I suspect we haven't heard the last from the Thalmor here. We'll keep that between just the two of us, though. I've had worse posts. I don't think I'll ever understand these Nords, but I've come to respect them. For all their idiosyncrasies, a people who value honor as highly as they do can't be all bad. Can't say the same for their weather, though."

He looked up at her, and she detected a shift in expression, as if there was something he wanted to say, but could not quite find a way to insert it into the conversation.

"And yourself? I know you only made the trip to Skyrim to sort out your brother's affairs. Have you thought much of what you'll do after things have settled down?"

Gallica flinched slightly. Of course she had. When she was not engaged in planning for this battle, she had thought of practically nothing else, and she was no closer to a solution than she had been when she began.

"I've thought about it a great deal, but…I'm not really sure where I will end up. I suppose it will depend on what happens after tomorrow."

"The Legion would be more than happy to keep you on," he said, and hesitated before continuing. "I understand that you've got family property in Cyrodiil that needs attending to, and a transfer can no doubt be arranged, but I wonder if you would consider staying on in Skyrim instead. Divines know I could use the help and you could make a bigger difference out here than in the Imperial City."

Gallica looked up at him then, at the earnestness in his gaze, and felt a racing, trembling feeling begin in her chest. Did he know she had been considering abandoning the Legion to leave with Ulfric? That was ridiculous. She had said nothing to anyone about her thoughts or her plans. And the giddy feeling, tinged now with fear, that she had experienced back in his office in Castle Dour all those weeks ago was beginning to creep maddeningly up on her again.

"There's nothing for me back in Cyrodiil," she said, and realized it was true as she said it. She was the last of her family living. Aside from a few scattered, distant relatives, she was alone and the estate that had been her grandfather's and her mother's afterwards, and which was now hers, was too full of ghosts to feel like the home it had once been. "I've come to like Skyrim. I could call it home, but to what end? What does a Dragonborn do, after she's served her purpose? The stories never talk about that part, what happens afterwards."

"Make a life for yourself. Find a way to be happy, as much as any of us mortals can be." Tullius replied, simply. He considered for a moment and then seemed to decide something. "I've been putting it off for too long myself, but no more. Life is too short. I want a wife, a family of my own. It's a late start, but late is better than never and now that I've finally found the woman I want, it's time. If she'll have me."

"Good. You should go talk to her," Gallica replied, forcing a smile, though she felt something inside of her sink. She was happy for Tullius, that he had found someone he thought could make him happy. Rikke was a respectable choice, and they had spent so much time around each other by now that it would hardly be much of a surprise to anyone. She could not help a deep chord of sadness, though. If she had never met Ulfric, maybe she could have made something out of the odd, guilty feelings she had begun to develop for Tullius. Perhaps it was just as well, considering. She had not had the best of luck with romance thus far. "I know you two work closely together, but I think she would be flattered, after all this time."

Tullius blinked at her for a moment as if he didn't quite understand what she meant.

"Who?"

"Rikke." Gallica replied, perplexed, as if this was evident, and he began to laugh.

"Did you think I was talking about Rikke all this time? No. She's a fine woman, don't get me wrong. But I was talking about you."

There was a long pause as Gallica gaped at him, her previous resignation collapsing in a heap along with the built up pressure of weeks of uncertainty and repression. The wind seemed to have been knocked out of her and even if she could have force words out of her apparently paralyzed vocal cords, her mind had gone completely and utterly blank. She stood, roughly, half-turning away, because the world was spinning around her and her legs seemed as uncooperative as her voice. It was too much. It was too much for her to deal with all at once. The pending battle, the stress of trying to find a solution to the problem of Ulfric, and now this. To hear the very thing echoed back at her that she had never let herself imagine could actually be real and which she had simultaneously felt so fundamentally guilty about was like a physical blow, and she could not seem to get her footing again.

A hand was on her shoulder and she turned her head, jerking out of the gridlock of her own thoughts, to see Tullius standing there, concern etched on his face.

"I hadn't meant to upset you," he began, and she shook her head, turning around to face him with a ragged sigh that portended the onset of tears.

"No, I'm not…it's not that…" she said, but the words escaped her. She took a deep breath, "I'm fine. I was surprised. That's all."

"I had intended to bring it up with a bit more finesse," he agreed, "Somewhere better than this place, to be sure. Do it properly. I was going to say something that day in Solitude, but there was the interruption and after that there just wasn't the time. By long practice, I don't like to leave loose ends before a battle, and I didn't want to go out tomorrow without having told you how I feel. Perhaps that's selfish of me, but I hope you can understand."

He stepped closer to her then, reaching out to brush the hair from her face and then, when she didn't pull away, cradling her cheek with crushing gentleness. The effect he had on her was dangerously magnified at this range, his touch like an electric current on her skin, and she felt that she could not have pulled away even if she had wanted to.

"I know what I want," Tullius said, leaning into her, his voice a low murmur by now, "I hope I haven't misread what you want, as well."

The kiss was tentative at first, but when she didn't object, his hands slid down and around her waist more confidently, sending what felt like a lightning bolt up Gallica's spine. The entire world seemed to exist only between the two of them in that moment, everything else forgotten. When they broke, he kissed her brow and leaned his forehead against hers, his arms warm and solid around her.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, simply. Gallica closed her eyes tightly, and bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. She wanted to say yes so badly that she could hardly breathe. She wanted to forget everything else that had happened and would happen after tonight, and just try to be happy for once in her life. It could work with Tullius, she knew. The only barriers there were the ones she had created for herself. Even as she thought it, though, she felt as if an icy hand had reached out and pulled her back from paradise into the mire of reality.

"I can't," she said, her voice breaking painfully into a whisper as she said it, and stepped back. She couldn't bear to look at his face and see the disappointment, and so she kept her eyes closed.

"Why?" he asked, and the hurt in that question was enough to shatter her heart. "If it's an issue of rank and command, there are ways to…"

"No, I know," she said, and buried her face in her hands. She could feel his eyes on her, the questions in them burrowing into her very soul for answers. "It's nothing to do with you. Any woman would be lucky to have you."

"Whatever it is, we'll deal with it." When she didn't reply, he reached out to her again, resting his hands on her shoulders, "I know you feel something for me. Don't try to tell me you don't. I'm not just going to let this go, Gallica, this is too important. Tell me."

She tried to explain, but lost the words. Even if she had been able to find them, there was no way she could tell him what had consumed her thoughts for the last few months without betraying her plan to help Ulfric escape. And if she did that, Ulfric was lost. She would never get close enough to him again to interfere. Not to mention, she would be confessing herself an accessory to treason.

"Is it Ulfric, then?" Tullius asked, finally, and for the second time that night, she felt her stomach drop, only this time it was accompanied by a shard of cold fear through her chest.

"What…how did…" she spluttered, and he nodded, grimly, his suspicions confirmed.

"You're still in love with him?"

Gallica thought for a moment and then sighed, shaking her head.

"No. I love him, I care for him, but not in that way anymore. I know better now." she said, and then forced herself to look up at Tullius, willing him to understand, "I do have feelings for you, Tullius. I have for quite a while now. I won't lie about that. But I have to see this through to the end with Ulfric. I owe him that much. I'm sorry."

"I wasn't suggesting we run out and find a priest tonight. One way or another, this thing with Ulfric ends tomorrow. I can wait, if you need time."

Gallica shook her head, wordlessly, brushing tears out of her eyes as her face flamed with shame.

"Should I be concerned about tomorrow?" he asked, his voice tight, his expression unreadable.

"No. I'm good to my word. It's time for this to be over."

He stepped back and looked away, his jaw clenching in consternation, and then sighed.

"By rights, I should have you removed from duty until after Ulfric has been dealt with. It's too much of a risk. But I won't. This stays between the two of us. We need you out there, and I trust you. I know that you'll do the right thing in the end," he told her. Before she could reply, he snapped his gaze back to her. "I'm not giving up that easily, either. I haven't gotten to where I am today by faltering at the first hurdle. I won't let you cheat yourself out of being loved because of some imagined penance you have to do for Ulfric Stormcloak. If he's still alive when we take the Palace tomorrow, I'll honor the request you made of me when you re-enlisted. The Emperor himself is traveling to Solitude as we speak, so Ulfric will get a real trial. Justice will be served, order will be restored. When that's finished, I'm going to ask you again. I'll be damned if I've waited all these years for a woman like you to come along and not put up a fight to keep you from getting away."

Gallica looked at him sadly for a moment, taking in the determined set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes, and then nodded. "I should go."

"We march at dawn," he told her, flatly, and she slipped out of the door and was gone.


	19. The End, and What Came After

The causeway that led up to the gates of Windhelm seemed to stretch in front of Gallica longer and emptier than it had ever seemed before. A slight breeze filtered up the valley from the coast, but otherwise the world seemed to hold its breath, the only sounds the creak of armor, the squeak of saddle leathers, and the sharp report of the horse's hooves on the stones. General Tullius rode front and center, with Rikke and Gallica walking at either stirrup and a small contingent of honor guard behind, each of them dressed in their best gear, their armor polished to a high shine. The smooth surface of Gallica's dragonbone armor glowed like polished ivory in the pale morning light, the curving teeth of the dead dragon framing her face in savage splendor. She was well-aware of the effect that the sight of her armor, now glorified in song and story by bards all across the country, had on on-lookers. That was part of why she stood at Tullius' heel now, a powerful symbol of Skyrim and Nord culture arrayed against the Stormcloaks in the coming fight.

A figure stepped forward on the rampart. Gallica's heart leapt, but it was not Ulfric. Nor was it Galmar. A functionary then, a stand-in.

"Turn around and go home, Imperials. There will be no admittance to Windhelm today," barked the functionary. "But if you have a message for Jarl Ulfric-"

"Ulfric Stormcloak is an accused murder and traitor to the Emperor and all loyal citizens of the Empire. He must stand accountable for his actions," Tullius called back, sternly. "By the order of Emperor Titus Mead II, I am here to place him and all who would lend him aid and support under military arrest. If he and his chief supporters will surrender themselves voluntarily, we will escort them to Solitude to face trial and summary judgment at the Emperor's pleasure. If not, then we will be obliged to take him and his city by force."

"You're wasting your breath, general. My lord Ulfric will never surrender Skyrim to the Imperial milkdrinkers who betrayed us to the Thalmor and denied us the worship of our god. Talos stands with us and we will hold Windhelm as long as there are any true Nords drawing breath within our walls!"

"Very well. Then I extend one last offer of mercy to any within your ranks who would lay down their weapons. Civilians and those Stormcloaks who choose to surrender their arms and take cover will be granted clemency. Once the gates are breached, however, no one bearing arms in Windhelm will be spared the sword."

A murmur ran across the wall top, and Gallica could see the uneasiness in some of the faces above her. They had the look of men who suspected that most of the people standing around them would not be alive when the sun set, and hoped beyond hope that the hand of death would not fall upon their own shoulder. They would fight like cornered sabre cats because there was nowhere else for them to go now, and a lot of otherwise honorable men would die for Ulfric today.

"We're not buying what you're peddling, milkdrinker. Take your pet Dragonborn there and go. Windhelm is waiting for you."

"So be it," Tullius replied. Turning his horse in a tight circle, Gallica and the rest of the guard reorienting themselves in the process, the group started back for the Imperial front line. The parlay was over, and the battle was only beginning. A young soldier ran up and took the reins of the horse, leading it away as the general dismounted. Tullius turned first to Rikke. "Signal the catapults. After the first volley, send in the vexillation we assembled from the southern flank to take the docks. The Argonians were given warning and scouts confirmed that they have vacated. I want that lower gate secured and barricaded."

"By your orders." Rikke said, crisply, springing immediately to action as she hurried ahead toward one of the cornicens standing with ram's horn trumpet next to the standard bearer at the forward watch post.

"You're with me," he told Gallica, grimly, turning without pause to head up the slope after Rikke. It took her by surprise, for that was not the position she had been assigned, and Gallica hurried after him.

"Sir, it was my understanding that I was to go in with the ram to help secure the gate."

"Change of plans, legate. You're on tactical now," he replied, stiffly, his tone brooking no further discussion. Right now, they were soldiers. Personal business had been left behind at the fort.

"Yes, sir," Gallica replied, obediently if somewhat bemused. It was highly irregular to shift a command so quickly and right before a battle was to start. Not until they reached the watch post and Gallica looked down to see the flood plain around the city stretched out in front of them did the reason dawn on her. Tullius might trust her, but he was not a fool and he did not take unnecessary risks. Rather than take her off the field completely, he had reposted her where he could keep an eye on her, just in case. It stung a little, but she could not blame him and so she accepted her assigned place without further comment. Tullius would have to send her into the city eventually, and he knew, as she did, that Gallica was perhaps the only match for Ulfric and his Voice in combat. One way or another, she would face Ulfric, and it would not be long now.

~~0~~

As with Whiterun, the object was to use the city's own walls to contain the citizens while the flaming missiles from the catapults sowed chaos in the streets. Unlike the Stormcloak invasion, however, the Legion could bombard Windhelm at their leisure for days if they chose. There were no allies waiting in the wings to lend aid from behind. Ulfric's men would have to break out of their own city in order to stop the deadly hail, and it was the forward legions' job to keep them in. Still, a lengthy siege would result in massive civilian casualties, and that was to be avoided if a quicker solution was available.

Gallica had a clear view of the formations below as the troops began to close in on Windhelm. Smoke rose in great columns from the city by now, and, if Gallica's memory was correct, it appeared that the market district was up in flames as well as parts of the Grey Quarter. Briefly, she hoped that Suvaris and her family had managed to get out of the city or find shelter. The Grey Quarter was a tinderbox waiting to burn. Finally, when it was judged that most of the city must be embroiled in keeping the flames from spreading, it was time to take the gates. The archers on the walls had the advantage of high ground and range, but the Legion was equally equipped for siege warfare. The units formed up into tight, boxy phalanxes, called "tortoises", shields held locked together over their heads and around the sides to protect from arrows as they advanced. Under the cover of a tortoise phalanx, the great rams, carved from tree trunks bigger around than a man, processed up the causeway while a company of light infantry and archers followed behind them, shooting up at the walls to keep the wall tops under fire. The locked shields could protect against arrows and other missiles, but heavier rocks and boiling oil were cause for concern. As the first loud _boom_ of the ram against the gates sounded across the river, Tullius donned his helmet.

"Form up the men," he told Rikke. "It's nearly time."

Gallica felt her heart begin to beat a war tattoo against her ribs as she hurried down to the field at Tullius' side. Once the gates were breached, the shock troops would flood the plaza and swarm the walls, taking care of the top line defenses. The prime century of Rikke's legion, with Tullius at the lead, would cut a path through the remaining enemy soldiers to the Palace. Once the dragon's head was removed, she thought, the rest of the body would collapse on itself like so much dead weight. If she were going to make use of the chaos to spirit Ulfric away, the moment would soon be upon her. Now that it was finally here, she would have to make a decision and there was precious little time. A sickening sense of dread about what she would find in the Palace began to fill her, but there was nothing that could be done about it now.

"Stay close," Tullius told her as they moved towards the head of the column. "The first thing those poor bastards see when we hit the gates is going to be me, but I want the second thing they see to be you. If they have any sense, they'll drop their swords and run. If not, we'll cut them down like kindling."

"Sir," Gallica responded mechanically, and Tullius stopped for a moment, turning and searching her eyes.

"You know what's coming. If the worst should happen, are you prepared?"

_No_, she thought, honestly. _Even after a thousand years, I would never be prepared for that._ She drew in a deep breath.

"Yes, sir."

"If Rikke and I are both cut down, it will be up to you. Circumstances being what they are, I need to know that I can count on you to finish it, if necessary."

"You won't be cut down," she said, certainly, and he shook his head.

"I'd better not be, I made you a promise and I intend on keeping it," he grunted, but his face grew serious. "Can I count on you?"

"Yes," she said, finally, and he nodded, brushing her shoulder briefly before he turned and strode up to where Rikke was waiting. As he surveyed the men, there was an ear-splitting crack and boom in the distance and Tullius grinned. "Alright, men. Let's go trap us a bear. Move out!"

~~0~~

Ever afterwards, Gallica could never recall how long the Battle of Windhelm had lasted or how many she had killed or whether or not she had been wounded. From the moment she burst through the gates, hard on Tullius' heels with a century of soldiers roaring behind her like a deadly tide, to the moment she spotted the great iron doors of the Palace of the Kings looming up before her, the world was a blur of fire, blood, writhing bodies, and stone. Pain was forgettable, death was inevitable, and the only thing she could consciously remember was a singular cadence beating throughout her brain and overriding every other thought. _Ulfric_.

"You men, guard the exits," Rikke's voice, seemingly muffled, said from somewhere behind Gallica as she approached the doors. "You four, with us."

Tullius reached for the great iron ring to pull on the door and found that it creaked opened without resistance.

"It's unlocked. This must be a trick. Ulfric's city is burning down around him, his walls have been breached, and he leaves his front door open for us?"

"He knows we're coming. He knows he can't stop us, so why should he? He wants us to come for him," Rikke said, and Tullius considered this for a moment before nodding.

"Let's get this over with."

The great hall of the Palace of the Kings was as brightly lit as if a feast was expected, but that was the only thing festive about it. The fine decorations had been removed, or perhaps sold to pay for the war effort since the revenue from the mines and the trade routes had dried up, but, with the strange perception for detail that sometimes comes during a times of stress, Gallica could see that the torches were new, the wall sconces had been dressed with fresh oil and wicks. They were expected. Ulfric wanted to see the faces of his attackers clearly. And there, at the back of the hall, Ulfric Stormcloak was seated upon his throne and Galmar, ever faithful, stood at his side with his great axe at the ready. Not another soul could be seen or heard from anywhere in the palace.

"Bar the doors," Tullius barked, curtly, as he stormed towards the throne with Gallica in close pursuit, but the soldiers that Rikke had ordered to follow them were already seeing to it.

"Already done, sir."

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the general called, his voice ringing clearly and authoritatively through the wide space of the hall, "You are guilty of insurrection, murder, the assassination of High King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. It's over!"

Gallica was barely listening. The world seemed to slow to a crawl around her as she rounded the wide table in the center of the hall to stand before the high seat, her eyes were locked onto the figure there, the man she had once loved and had nearly given up everything for. It was Ulfric, she would have been able to pick him out of a crowd of thousands. But it was not Ulfric as she remembered him, as she had last seen him all those months ago. The man on the throne had Ulfric's proud posture, but the shoulders were a little more hunched, born down by the strain of fighting a losing war. He looked older, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, his normally neatly groomed beard and hair unkempt. His eyes were the same, blue points of fire in a weary face, and they locked on her as if she were the only one in the room. He was perfectly, eerily calm. He was not afraid. _I don't fear death_, she heard him say, the memory of his words clenching around her heart like a fist.

"Not while _I'm_ still alive it's not," Galmar snarled stepping protectively between Tullius and his Jarl.

"Step aside, Galmar. We're here to accept Ulfric's surrender," Rikke said, reasonably, almost gently. For an instant, Gallica remembered what Rikke had told her about her past with Galmar, and she wondered if this was as difficult for her. But her attention snapped back to Ulfric, as he shook his head.

"I will never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire," Ulfric replied, evenly, rising from the throne as he spoke. _No_, Gallica thought, cringing inwardly, unable to dredge up words to express the horrible premonition that was building inside of her and powerless to stop what was about to happen. _Ulfric, you fool, why can't you ever just stop?_

"Skyrim doesn't belong to you, Ulfric!" Rikke exclaimed, as if trying to reason with a friend who was standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice, and Gallica could hear the same rising note of fear in her voice that was pounding through Gallica's own veins. They had been friends once, she remembered, but all other thoughts were instantly banished as Ulfric smiled faintly, his eyes still trained on Gallica's.

"No. But I belong to her."

She had seen that look before on men who knew they were about to die, and it was all she could do to stay still. She wanted to scream at him, to plead with him…just this _once_…to do the reasonable thing and surrender so that she could have even a small chance of seeing him through this. She wanted to hit him or hug him or take up a sword for him at this last possible moment to keep him from forcing his own execution all at the same time, but her body felt as if it were made of lead, as if she were a spectator in someone else's life. _No, no, no_, _this is not how this was supposed to happen…_

"Enough!" Tullius roared, angrily. "You are both traitors and will die traitors' deaths. Stand down and face trial and public execution, or fight and die here. It's the all the same to me. Either way, I'll be sending both your heads back to Cyrodiil in a box."

"Ulfric!" Gallica cried out, desperately, unable to keep it bound inside any longer, but it was already too late. Galmar's voice cut through hers, a roar of rage, as he launched himself forward, directly at her, with his axe raised and his eyes full of hate.

Though she brought her shield up just in time to keep his first swing from cleaving her head in two, Galmar was strong and Gallica was driven down to her knee by the force of the blow. There was a clash of metal on metal from somewhere nearby, but the only thing Gallica could see was the hulking form of her attacker. He swung again as she regained her feet, lunging in at him and slamming her shield against his elbows to interrupt a sweep that would have cut her from shoulder to belly if it had cracked her armor and brought the point of her short, Imperial sword in under his exposed arm. She heard the screech of the blade as it penetrate his maille and hot blood spilled down her arm, but at the same instant she felt a heel bury itself hard into the soft spot at the back of her knee and Galmar wrenched his body to the side, tumbling her flat on to her back.

The air shot past her with a furious clap like thunder as Ulfric's Thu'um sounded from nearby and the shadow of her enemy rose over her, oblivious to what should have been a mortal wound and his blood falling down over her like rain, howling like a beast as he brought down the killing blow. Out of reflex, she rolled inward and used the momentum of her body to stab violently upwards just as his body bent. The blade struck true, driving itself almost all the way to the hilt through Galmar's throat, even as she felt the bone-breaking collision of the axe on her backplate, reaving through the dragonbone like so much firewood, and the nstant, sharp agony of the blade as it carved a deep channel along her right side and back. Galmar emitted a pained gurgle, staggering, and then collapsed forward, the torsion wrenching Gallica's sword from her hand as he fell.

Groaning, she thrashed for a moment, pulling herself out from under the dead housecarl as she clasped a hand over her wound to staunch the blood flow that was quickly sopping through her clothes and armor padding and down her thigh in sticky red rivulets. Ulfric was closing in on her now, axe in hand, and Tullius and Rikke were scrambling to their feet yards away, having been flung backward by Ulfric's Shout. She had lost track of them during the tangle with Galmar, and panic rose like bile in Gallica's throat. She might have time to reach the dirk she kept in the sheath on her calf, but if Ulfric charged her now…

_Can I count on you?_, Tullius asked in her mind, and she knew then what she had to do.

"**_Fus ro dah!"_**she Shouted, summoning every ounce of her being, every bit of the pain, fear, and anger that had been building up in her soul since she had killed Alduin…the feeling of powerlessness, the sleepless nights, the heartaches, the bitter fighting, the terror that one day a day like today would come …and felt the force of it leave her body along with the words like a world-drowning tidal wave.

Ulfric was flung bodily through the air, as if a giant had picked him up and hurled him with every ounce of its strength, and he landed hard against the side wall of the hall. Gallica could hear the breath rush out of him like a wind, and he crumbled like a child's ragdoll to the floor. Silence reigned, and for an instant she thought she had killed him, but then she heard him cough, a loud choking gasp of a sound.

Rikke and Tullius wasted no time. As Ulfric dragged himself painfully upright onto his hands and knees, he found Rikke's sword at his throat. Gallica stood staring, her own wound practically forgotten, unable to move.

"Well, Ulfric," Tullius began, evenly, though Gallica could tell from his voice that even he had been rattled by what had just happened. "I don't think you'll be escaping this time. Do you have anything to say for yourself, before we end this?"

Ulfric was silent for a moment, his hair draped around his face and obscuring it in shadow.

"Let the Dragonborn be the one to do it," he rasped. "It'll make for a better song."

Rikke flinched visibly and looking up at Gallica with a guilty, painful expression, but Gallica remained unmoving, as if she had been turned to stone. She could see it now, the piece of the puzzle that she had been missing and which even mad Jarl Idgrod of Morthal had known. She would never have been able to save Ulfric, because he didn't want to be saved. If she had succeeded in getting him out of Windhelm, out of Skyrim even, he would have come back. Because he truly did love Skyrim, completely and unstintingly, no matter how flawed his way of showing it was. But also because there could be no more satisfying death for him than to die in pursuit of his dream, his legend, the thing that would live after him for all time when he had gone to Sovngarde. Even if he failed to remake Skyrim in his own image, he would still have that and that was enough.

Tullius, shifting uneasily, glanced briefly back at Gallica and then shook his head.

"I don't care who does it, as long as it's done. But not yet, Ulfric. I don't want anyone to say you never got your fair day in court. Rikke, get him out of…"

"I'll do it," Gallica interrupted, and Tullius stopped dead, as if he had been slapped. Gallica walked over calmly, and he stepped between Ulfric and her, his face creasing with tremendous concern.

"You don't have to," he said, lowering his voice, "I'll make sure he gets his trial and that he's taken proper care of till then. Let the headsman be the one to do it."

A vision of Roggveir, the unfortunate gate guard she had seen executed the first time she visited Solitude, flashed to mind. She imagined Ulfric standing where he had stood, before the executioner's block for the second time in his life, while a sea of people screamed for his blood.

"I'll do it," she said again, and then added when Tullius seemed about to protest, "It's his last wish. We can be that generous."

Tullius stared at her, his expression frozen somewhere between shock and worry, but then he relented and offered her his own sword.

"Use my blade. I sharpened it last night. It will be cleaner."

She took it from him and moved, limping, over to Ulfric. He didn't look up until she knelt down, painfully, to be at eye level with him. She could see the pain in his eyes, the physical as well as the deeper spiritual, and it filled her with compassion even as she felt it rend at the frayed fibers of her own soul. She reached out and laid her left hand on his cheek and neck, as she had done when they had been lovers what seemed like an age ago now.

"This is the last gift I can give you," Gallica said, trying hard to keep her voice from shaking as she looked at him. "Whatever else is said about you, history will remember you as the man whom none but the Dragonborn, Slayer of Alduin the World-Eater, could kill, and who was beloved by her. Your name will be sung with mine until the very end of the world. I swear it will be so."

He smiled then, and she let her arm slide further around his neck in an embrace, her cheek pressing to his.

"I will wait for you," he said, next to her ear, a whisper so low that she knew no one else had heard it, and in one swift movement, she plunged the blade into his heart. She held him until she felt the life go out of him, and then eased him gently to the ground. Someone murmured something behind her, but Gallica heard nothing. She felt at his neck for the Talos amulet she had given him the morning she had left to fight Alduin and pulled it free, tucking it into her belt before she stood.

Gallica did not hear Tullius and Rikke speaking to her. When Rikke touched her shoulder, she followed them mechanically into the courtyard of the Palace, but she stood as silent and unseeing as a stone. Ulfric was dead. She had killed him. That was all there was to say. And it would be a long time before Gallica said anything at all.

~~0~~

Tullius read the report on his desk for the fifth time that morning without understanding a word of what it said and then tossed it away in irritation. He leaned forward onto his elbows and rubbed his temples, trying to assuage the dull precursor of a headache. A month had passed since the Stormcloak Rebellion, what the bards and the writers of history were now calling the civil war, had officially ended. But, there was no rest for the weary and especially not for a weary military governor, the only person in Skyrim at current with some semblance of central authority.

Martial law had only been intended to last until the Jarls could elect a new High King or Queen. Tullius had assumed that once the war was finished and the new Jarls installed, the Moot would be organized quickly, Elisif would be elected, and the long business of reconstruction could begin in earnest. To everyone's surprise, though, the Jarls had refused. That damned obstinate Balgruuf and mad Idgrod, joined by Brunwulf Free-Winter of Windhelm and even Kraldar of Winterhold eventually, had kicked up a fuss, insisting that the decision wait until the Dragonborn could be present. Tullius had argued with them until he was nearly blue in the face, but when Elisif had begun to murmur that it would be fitting to have the Dragonborn there as well, he was forced to relent. But no one knew where the Dragonborn had gone, and so Skyrim remained in a state of uneasy gridlock.

Tullius was a brave man. There were few things in the world that scared him, but he had never been more frightened for another person than he had been for Gallica after Ulfric's death. In his gut, he had known that Ulfric would not allow himself to survive that battle and accept an inglorious death at the block instead, but he hadn't wanted Gallica to be the one to do it. Considering their history, that was too much for one person, even a very strong person, to bear. And he had been right. It had broken her.

She had stood silently beside him through the victory speech, but had given no indication that she heard him when he tried to talk to her afterwards, her eyes empty and glazed. It was not until she collapsed in the street on their way to collect Brunwulf Free-Winter that he realized she had been more gravely injured than she had let on. A shard of Galmar's axe, which shattered on the stone floor of the Palace during that terrible fight, had lodged itself in her side, and she had lost a great deal of blood.

"Take some time," he had told her later, once the healers had done their work. "We've pushed you too hard these last few months. Rikke and I can take it from here. Come back when you're ready."

He had thought Gallica would retreat into the camp for a week, rest, lick her wounds, and emerge ready to talk. Instead, she disappeared, leaving everything but her horse and the clothes on her back behind. Not even the scouts could track her. For a while, he worried about the potential for a suicide, but no body ever turned up and Rikke seemed confident that Gallica was not the type to fall on her own sword.

"She'll be back," the legate had assured him, "She's a Legion woman. We always turn up when we're needed."

So, Tullius waited and applied himself as best he could to the mountainous task of pulling some order out of the post-war chaos. The Emperor would be arriving soon, both to oversee the satisfactory conclusion of the war and to attend his cousin's wedding, and that was no small thing. There were still small hold-outs of unruly Stormcloaks scattered up in the hills and, more worryingly, vampire attacks were on the rise in all of the nine holds. A man named Isran had apparently dredged up the Dawnguard, some sort of archaic society of vampire hunters, in order to deal with the threat and seemed to be having a small amount of success at it, so Tullius set a few of his people to keep an eye on the vampire-hunters and let it be. He had bigger problems.

Two weeks ago, though, the reports had started to mention one of the Dawnguard members in particular, a woman of unknown identity who had only recently been recruited, but had risen to become one of the Dawnguard's most prominent agents in a remarkably short span of time. The coincidence was too much to ignore, and so Tullius sent a messenger with two letters, one to Isran to ask the identity of the recruit, and the second to be delivered to Gallica if it was indeed her. The Dawnguard leader wrote back to say that it was none of Tullius bloody business who he recruited and that, unless Tullius was planning to take up a crossbow himself, he would thank him kindly to sod off and let them get on with their work. The messenger reported that Isran had kept the letter for Gallica, though, and so Tullius held out hope that it was her and that, when she finished whatever battle she was fighting now, she would be back.

The gamble had paid off. On the same day the report stating that the Dawnguard had succeeded in ending the vampire threat arrived, word came up from the city guard that the Dragonborn had returned to her house in Solitude. It was only through a colossal act of willpower that Tullius did not rush directly over to Proudspire Manor to see for himself. In the last half a year, Gallica had been through things that would have crushed most other mere mortals, maybe more now than he knew, and she would come out when she was ready.

That had been three days ago, though, and the hours, the minutes crawled by like centuries. He didn't know why she had not come, and the possible reasons made Tullius ache to his very core when he thought about them. Even if he had lost any chance of making a life with her, he wanted to know that she was at least not permanently damaged, that the woman he had loved still lived in the world somewhere. Standing up suddenly, he yanked his cloak from the wall and hurried for the door. Daedra take him, he couldn't stand it. He had to know.

The days were growing noticeably longer again in Solitude and the icicles that hung from the roofs of the mansions along the royal avenue were dripping into the piles of snow along the foundations with a sound like rain. Winter had not yet released its grasp on Skyrim, but spring was on its way and the sun shone brightly out of a vibrantly blue sky, warming the world as it rocked back from the darkness of midwinter. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney of Proudspire Manor, and Tullius felt his mouth go dry with anticipation.

When no one answered at the third knock, he stepped back, flustered and disappointed. Gallica's housecarl must be out in the market. As he turned to troop back down to the high street to see if he could find the woman, too wrought up to give up so easily, a thought struck him. Each of the manors was built on basically the same floor plan, and each possessed a small terrace at the back which overlooked the ocean below the great sea arch that underlay the Palace District. Feeling like a trespasser, but knowing he had to try it, Tullius found his way around the side of the manor and through the walkway that ran between Proudspire and its neighbor to the back of the house.

A woman was leaning on the stone balustrade of the porch, looking out over the water and watching the sea-hawks wheel and circle above the cliffs. Her blonde hair hung in a neat, simple braid down her back, contrasting with the dark grey of the wolf fur mantle that was wrapped around her shoulders. As she turned to look at him and he saw the same face that had haunted his dreams for months now, Tullius' heart leapt into his throat. There was a new scar on her temple, running from just beside her right ear up into her hairline, and her nose was just the slightest bit crooked, a recent injury perhaps, but it was Gallica. Her eyes had changed the most. There was life in them again, a light as she recognized his face, but it was as if a veil had been drawn across some inward place that had once been open.

She looked at him for a moment, neither welcoming nor forbidding, and then turned her gaze back out to the sea. Uncertainly, but unable to force himself to leave now that he had seen her, he walked over and leaned on the balustrade near her.

"I wasn't sure that you had received my letter," he said, after a few minutes. "Isran seemed to think it was none of my affair."

She looked down, smiling slightly.

"That sounds like him," she said. "I didn't receive it until a few days ago. I've been busy, or I would have come sooner."

"I heard."

Silence. Uncomfortable, he shifted, and then looked at her. In profile, he could see that her face was perhaps a little leaner than it had been, the care lines beginning to show around her eyes just a little more. She would be…what, twenty-five?...but the expression on her face and in her eyes was that of a much older person. Even so, even with the scars and imperfections, he found her heart-stoppingly, soul-achingly beautiful and it was all he could do to keep from throwing his arms around her and telling her how much he had missed her.

"The Jarls have been holding up the Moot up until your return," he said, finally, awkwardly. "They insisted that you be there to preside over it."

"I know. Tell them I'll come."

"And I'm certain the Emperor will want an audience when he arrives. His travel has been delayed, but he expressed curiosity about you in the last letter his scribe sent."

She nodded, but said nothing.

"Gallica," he continued, turning to her then, "about what happened…"

She shook her head.

"It's over with. It's done."

He stared at her for a moment, trying to discern her feelings, anything that might tell him what she was thinking. "Do you blame me for how things ended?"

"No. You tried to do what I asked you to do. I'm grateful for that," she replied, and sighed, raising herself upright. "Ulfric made his choice. And I made mine. And it's done with. I've made peace with that."

He nodded, unsure of what to say next, but she pre-empted him.

"You asked me what my plans were for when the war was over. I've been thinking about that," she said, and he waited as she gathered the words. "Akatosh made me the Dragonborn so that I could fulfill Alduin's prophecy, but he didn't leave any instructions for what I was supposed to do afterwards. So, I'm going to do what I want to do, and use the gift to accomplish the things I want to accomplish instead of running away from it. And one of the things I want is for the Empire to be made whole again, to be great and good as it was long ago before the Thalmor"

Gallica looked at him and smiled then.

"So, yes, General Tullius, I will stay in Skyrim. As long as I'm needed. When the Thalmor prove themselves a threat once more, as they will eventually, I will destroy them. And the Empire will endure forever, Divines grant it be so."

Looking at her as she said it, the unwavering confidence in her smile, the conviction in her eyes, Tullius felt the strange prickling of prophecy in murky, primitive region of his mind and he nodded. It would not be accomplished in his lifetime, he knew that, but if anyone could start Tamriel down the path that would reunite the Empire, it was the woman standing before him. And he believed her.

"Is there still a chance," he asked before he could stop himself, and because he could not bear to leave it unsaid, "that you would ever accept the offer I made you that night before Windhelm?"

The question hung between them for what seemed like a torturously long moment to Tullius, and then, slowly, she stepped forward and crossed the short distance between them to embrace him. To touch her after all this time was like setting off an avalanche, and he clasped her to him fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder to keep from either shouting with elation or crying or even laughing, he wasn't sure which. After a moment, she drew back and kissed him with real feeling.

"After the Moot, if you still want me," she said, when they broke. "There are some things I need to see to first. If you're going to be my husband, I need to be able to come to you with a clear heart and conscience. You deserve that from me. But, as I've come to realize while we were apart, I love you. And I would rather face what's ahead with you beside me than any other way."

She laced her fingers into his as she turned back to the balustrade, and he looked out over the sea with her and felt that finally, at last, the war was really over. And a new, better chapter in the history of Tamriel was just about to begin.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, because I certainly enjoyed writing it. Thanks to everyone who followed the story and commented, I truly appreciate each and every one._


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